


Porphyria

by headsupimhere



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Van Helsing (2004)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Smut, Vampire Hunters, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headsupimhere/pseuds/headsupimhere
Summary: Arthur is good with guns. He’s always been proficient, and with his parents having been vampire hunters, there’s no reason for one to wonder why.





	1. I

Arthur is good with guns. He’s always been proficient, and with his parents having been vampire hunters, there’s no reason for one to wonder why.

He’s also very good at catching people in lies and deceptions. With his profession, he’s always got to know what’s lurking around the next corner, because he is the primary target of the human-esque mosquitoes.

Luckily, though, he’s got many family friends who are aware of his hobby of murdering, and they’ve been close for long enough that it’s just become a topic to casually speak about over dinner. At first, of course, they were put off by it, but with Arthur’s promise of cleansing the streets, they were quickly accepting of it.

One of these friends happens to be a man going by the name of John Marston, who has been trying to meet with Arthur over the past few months, but Arthur has never had the time. He’s been on the trail of a powerful vampire, one to rule them all, extremely far north. He’s certain that whatever the bloodsucker may be is hiding out in the mountains, just above the Eastern Grizzlies, but the only proof he’s gathered is a newspaper stating that there was a kidnapping one late night in Van Horn, and that the black-clad culprit fled to the mountains.

At this point, he supposes, he should take every precaution he can. He’s been caught off-guard many a time, and he doesn’t want this to be the point at which too many people die, and there’s an army awaiting him in the Grizzlies when he gets there. If he’s quick, he can get to the root of the cause before it spreads and infects the good people in the world, who deserve to live without two little holes in their necks and an extreme reaction to sunlight.

Of course, John doesn’t believe that, calling it “nonsense” on several occasions.

Unfortunately, as well, John should be arriving any minute now, but Arthur is surrounded by newspapers nailed to the walls of his office, many different hints leading him to where this vampire may be. Either that, or leading him completely astray, but he doesn’t want to believe that. He’s on the trail, and he’ll be able to find that beast soon and stab his wooden stake through its heart.

Arthur flips a page in a book, back hunched as he reads the words again and again, remembering them from the other sixteen times he’s gone through this book. If anything,  _ it _ is nonsense, but it must be easier to understand and rationalise for one who can read better than Arthur. He simply doesn’t understand the premise of garlic affecting a vampire in such a way as is depicted with Dracula, but he can’t take many things for granted anymore.

There’s a knock at the door and Arthur’s head flies up, cracking softly at the sudden movement to look over his shoulder. He stands, ignoring the sheets of paper falling to the floor as he lifts his revolver from under a stack of them and moves towards the door. A swift breath, and the candle he’d been using to read is blown out.

Carefully shutting the door behind him, in case it is John, he approaches the door. There’s another knock, slightly more impatient, just as he’s about to touch the knob. It forces Arthur to jolt with a bit of fear, but he places his hand on the knob and unlocks the four bolts he’d intricately placed above and below the handle, and pulls it open anyway. He holds his revolver strongly at his side, seeing a silhouette before seeing John’s face there, a relief passing over that face of his.

“Jesus, Arthur, you got me all worked up for nothin’,” John complains, holstering the gun he’d obviously just pulled out, pushing past Arthur, and shutting the door. He hastily throws the bolts locked again, looking at Arthur and grabbing at his shoulders. “You good, friend?” Arthur nods and clears his throat. “I don’t need to knock a sharp stick through your chest, do I?” Arthur lets out a laugh this time, pushing John away.

“Sorry, just didn’t expect the early arrival,” he steps away and towards the dining room, noticing as John’s eyes move immediately to Arthur’s office. It’s the messiest room in the house, but he must’ve noticed the edge of the newspaper peeking out from under the door.

“It’s far from bein’ late, Arthur. It’s half past eight.” He pauses. “You’ve been on that Grizzlies vampire thing again, haven’t you?” John sounds disappointed, but Arthur simply turns around and looks at him, letting out a sigh and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, John. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, and you’re gonna be so sorry when I bring back that bastard’s head.”

“They disintegrate, don’t they?” John asks, furrowing his brows. Arthur frowns. “That’s what you told me.”

“Yes, I meant it…” he turns around again and steps into the dining room. “Forget it.”

“You eat today?” John touches Arthur’s shoulder and pulls himself closer to match pace with Arthur as he crosses the threshold into the room.

“I ate, yeah,” Arthur lies. Nothing can really be done while eating, he’s been preoccupied by eating before, who needs it every day when you can simply disregard it until you’re near passing out? Surely, eating before that point is only precautionary. He’s lived this long off of whole meals when he’s near starving.

“You eat  _ yesterday _ ?” John pulls a chair out, watching as Arthur sits and nods, no verbal answer this time. “Good.” He pretends as if he believes Arthur, but he doesn’t believe it for a second. Arthur is good at lying when he needs to be, but this doesn’t seem to be one of those necessary times. “I’ve been wantin’ to see you for a while, because…” John sighs, leaning an elbow on the table. “Well, you’re on this idea, an’ I thought it might be good to have some help,  _ if _ it is really as big as you think it is.”

“John, I know all you’re gonna do is try to talk me down from it, I don’t want to par’ner up with you if that’s what this’ll be.”

“No, no. Not me,” John shakes his head, placing his pointer finger down on the table in a dull thump. “There’s a guy stayin’ up in… Annesburg, I think, now, an’ he’s pretty confident in his bloodsucker-slayin’ abilities. Name’s Aiden O’Malley.” Arthur’s eyebrows raise and he sits back a bit, eyeing John. He seems to be telling the truth, but this might only be a face to his attempt of getting Arthur away from the idea. Maybe this guy is only going to lead him astray and convince him that it’s fake, but he listens anyway.

“How’d you hear about him?” Arthur asks, leaning forward and onto the table a bit to show his piqued interest.

“Charles,” John says, nodding and looking down at his hand, now lying flat on the table. “He told me about someone he’d read about in a police report, then went to meet. Said the guy carried himself pretty well, that he looked to be pretty good at his job.”

“Well, you have to be,” Arthur nods a bit. “Annesburg, you said?” John hums his approval and shifts in the seat.

“Been movin’ around the country. Lucky he stopped by when we finally had a chance to chat, huh?” Arthur nods again.

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Arthur looks up at John, who meets his gaze and shrugs.

“It’s no harm. Abigail’s been gettin’ me by while you’ve been busy, though it’s not the best; it’s not you.” John looks away for just a moment before lifting his chair and moving it closer. “Been a while since we’ve been alone like this.”

“It has,” Arthur agrees, more or less bored with the way the conversation has turned.

In reality, he’d been avoiding John. He’d gotten what he wanted that night, when they were a bit more than tipsy, but John still wanted something, and it seems that it remains that way, even now, after this long.

John leans forward and smiles a bit, Arthur seeing the still-puffy pink scars on the side of his face. That had been a fun night, just a while ago. They’d been together at that point, when a wolf got at and scratched John’s face to high hell. From then on, John has insisted that it was a werewolf, but Arthur disagrees. He says they’re not real, and he believes that whole-heartedly. Besides, the size of that overgrown dog was hardly enough to be worth being called a werewolf.

Arthur has no choice but to move forward into John’s outstretched hand, his cheek coming in contact with the rough palm, and a thumb drifting over his lips a few times.

“You got skinny,” John says, now whispering. “Used to be more here, now I can see your cheekbones.”

“Sorry,” Arthur apologises for a third time this evening.

“Shush,” John shakes his head and moves forward, his head tilted a bit as he kisses Arthur for the first time in months. It takes moments for Arthur to shut his eyes and at least pretend as if he’s enjoying it, shoulders lowering. He feels a hand there after the tension there is lessened, holding on to his shirt. John pulls away after a bit, looking Arthur in those pretty blue eyes of his. “Don’t know how I ever accepted Abigail’s kisses, with these ones always here.” Arthur nods, his hand sliding to John’s thigh and staying there as their lips connect again. He doesn’t want to get into this now, hasn’t for a while, but John is a close friend, and Arthur doesn’t want to lose him.

John moves closer and closer to Arthur, moving to the edge of his seat to get less distance between them.

“Arthur,” he groans, his own hand moving from Arthur’s shoulder to slide along the man’s front and tease at the hem of Arthur’s pants. “You got no idea how much I want you to take me on the table here.” Arthur finally pulls back, swallowing and looking to the side.

“John, I…”

“Please,” he whispers, leaning close again and burying his face in Arthur’s neck, whispering so close to Arthur’s ear as he runs his tongue over the soft skin just below it. “It’s been so long.” Arthur’s face shows an expression of regret and disapproval, but he knows he can’t escape now. Not after John has done this favour for him, and it has been a long time. Maybe if he’d gotten drunk before John arrived, this could’ve been enjoyable. But then again, he doesn’t know if he’ll enjoy it or not, after all, it’s been just as long for Arthur as it has John, and Arthur hasn’t had  _ anything _ since then. He’s been too focused on other things.

“Alright,” Arthur finally agrees, and he feels John smile against his skin before Arthur stands and points at the ground in front of him. John stands as well, snagging another kiss as he removes the clothes from his lower half and kneels before Arthur, pulling at Arthur’s pants now.

Arthur wonders if he can leave. Run off to Annesburg and stay there with this Aiden O’Malley until John can have forgotten about him. Then again, he doesn’t really know this man. What if he’s like John? Always wanting this kind of attention? It doesn’t seem likely, but obviously John doesn’t look to be that sort of man, either.

Arthur’s fingers move to comb through John’s hair as he feels those lips circling around his head. He doesn’t look at John, never favouring the sight or the action at all, simply tilting his head back as he lets out a slightly noisy breath. He needs to do this, despite his disliking of it altogether, or else John will know he simply isn’t into it like he had been before.

The lower man pushes forward and takes all of Arthur into his mouth, looking up at Arthur and humming around him.

“Jesus,” Arthur grunts, bucking forward and trying to get further into John’s mouth, though it’s not really possible.

“Feel good?” John asks after pulling away, followed by him licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

“Sure,” Arthur nods, a hand on the table as he has to stabilise himself. He’s fallen down while this happened before, the stimulation simply too much for his legs to stay reliable. “Keep goin’.”

John does as he’s told, eagerly working Arthur closer and closer but waiting for Arthur to tell him to stop so they can continue on to the best part. Arthur doesn’t stop him, though, and he begins to worry that they had a lapse in communication. “Arthur—”

“Shut up and keep goin’,” Arthur growls, and John, again, does as he’s told.

The look on Arthur’s face after a few minutes more is pretty obvious to John that they’d missed something along the way. Arthur’s hand is still in John’s hair, gripping it tighter now, and his other hand is stroking at John’s jaw. It feels wonderful, yes, but John isn’t getting much out of this, especially when he’d planned on getting some actual action tonight.

Arthur bucks forward gently a few times, his eyes shutting and his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he feels himself release. His breath is heavier than it had been before, pushing through his bit lip before he finally lets it go.

John pulls back after a moment, swallowing harshly and looking up at Arthur, who leans against the table again and tries to gather himself.

“You… I wanted…”

“Huh?” Arthur asks, looking down at John through his haze. He feels extremely loose, like all of the tension has been removed from his body from that one orgasm. After all that time, finally he allowed himself a bit of relaxation.

“I thought you were gonna fuck me over the table, Arthur.” John stands, pulling his pants up and trying to hide his half-chub as he glares at Arthur.

“I’m sorry, John,” the fourth time that night. “You know I haven’t… y’know, done that in a while. Couldn’t hold out.”

“You coulda said somethin’ at least,” John snarls, “and I didn’t know that, just in case you weren’t aware. I haven’t seen you in months, and I finally come here to give you helpful information, then you use my mouth?”

“John—”

“Don’t.” John backs away, a glare on his face. Arthur fixes his clothes and frowns as John turns and starts for the door, but Arthur catches his wrist and turns him around. Arthur firmly presses his lips to John’s, unwillingly tasting himself but feeling that this is necessary. As already discovered, he  _ needs _ John, but not in the way John needs him. “Arthur…” John whines a bit, pulling back and pouting.

“I’m sorry.” Five. “I shoulda said somethin’.” John nods, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a step back, out of Arthur’s warm embrace.

“I’m gonna leave, you have other things to do. A trip to plan for, I bet.” John turns around and walks toward the door, leaving the room uncomfortably silent, but not because of the anger he had previously shown. Arthur expects him to leave and get over it within the evening when he returns to Abigail, so it should be alright. At least that last bit of effort paid off in the end.

“Bye, John,” Arthur says, and he doesn’t get a response, but at least the door isn’t slammed shut in front of him.

He sighs and returns to his office, lifting the pieces of paper, discarded from earlier frustrations of not having a single lead to push on. But now he does have one, at least from the way John described it. This Aiden O’Malley, if he’s half as good as Charles seems to have made him out to be, maybe he knows a thing or two more. Besides, he travels, clearly, and can get a better idea of where this bloodsucker goes than Arthur, who is stationed in Saint Denis permanently.

Tossing the unused newspapers in the trash bin, he looks around the room and scratches O’Malley’s name down onto one of the ones pinned up. At least if he’s killed, in one way or another, John will know where to look, or Charles. But if they enter this room, they should see the name, now circled four times over and very drawing for the eyes.

Arthur stands straight and cracks his back, letting out a breath and looking at a map he had also hung on the wall, beside it, the arrival and departure times of trains throughout New Hanover. From Saint Denis, there is a train leaving at noon, and he should be in Annesburg by two in the afternoon. That gives him just a little bit of time to pack a few extra things in the morning, namely anti-bloodsucker weapons, but also his revolver, which hasn’t failed him yet, and he doesn’t expect to. Especially with the silver bullets he always carries on his person, even in his home. In the worst case, he can pull it by itself and press it to the vampire’s neck to make them back away until he can arm himself properly.

It’s never happened in his home, but it’s happened outside. Everything he does is to protect from something that has happened to him before. The locks, he’s had one, two, and three, but even the third didn’t keep others from busting in uninvited. So he added a fourth.

He keeps all of his vampire hunting things in a key-locked office, because others have tried to steal his leads before, and he doesn’t want that happening again. Not after the last time, when an innocent human was turned into one of those stupid succubuses and Arthur was forced to kill her. She’d been wailing when he found her, precisely two small holes in her neck, slowly trickling blood onto the ground as she writhed with the venom filling her body.

He’s heard that it hurts, being changed. That it feels as if a snake has bit you, but that the venom it places inside is like magma, boiling your veins and baking you alive from the inside. You pass out from the pain, and you awake with a heightened sense of everything. The best you can hope for is being killed while you’re asleep, or not being left outside with no tree cover. You’ll wake up with blisters and severe sunburns, as he’s learned. He’s heard it from outside sources, one of them being a siren-like vampire who had approached him to speak. It surprised him at first, yes, but he later found that he quite liked her.

She spoke confidently, with an alluring sound no human could replicate. Had the prettiest eyes, she did. But Arthur watched, after she had spoken with him, as she walked out into the sun and sizzled. Arthur had tried to rescue her, but as soon as she touched him, she hissed in pain and clawed at him. This sent him back far enough to bruise his lower back when he fell, but he couldn’t lift himself with the two deep cuts along his stomach, sizzling with the venom in her nails.

That’s how he learned that it’s not only the teeth, but everything. They were like several horrible animals all in one, like poisonous frogs on the outside, and a mix of snakes and mosquitoes on the inside.

That’s not to say it was a horrendous experience, but it was. It had scarred Arthur for months, and he’d gone as far as saying that he’s quitting the vampire hunting business, but Charles had dragged his ass back in, saying that he’s being ridiculous, and that he was acting as if he had feelings for that bloodsucker. Arthur hadn’t wanted to imagine it, so he stayed in. He wasn’t in love, nor did he enjoy her, only her presence. She would’ve been nice to know when she was human, is all.

Arthur steps out of the office and locks it, spinning the key between his fingers as he moves towards the bedroom and collapses onto the bed. Suspiring, he lies there and stretches out, passing out almost immediately from the lack of sustenance and energy.

Tomorrow is a new day.


	2. II

Morning comes faster than Arthur would like to admit, but at the very least, overnight, he’d slept the most he had in weeks, coming in at thirteen hours. He’s rudely awakened by his body reacting faster than his mind to the clock against the wall reading ten twenty, landing harshly on the floor as he jolts up too quick and the blood rushes to his head.

Lifting himself up a few moments later, he rushes towards the dresser on the other side of the small room and tugs a drawer open, digging through a small collection of dress shirts and pulling one out. It’s his priority, in most cases, to look his best, especially when meeting those in a similar business. He craves to look formal so they think he’s better than what he really is, but he hardly feels as if his clothes outweigh his dumbish look, or his blank stare when they use larger words.

He shakes his head at the thought, trying to clear his mind as he sets the shirt on the bed and retrieves darker dress pants, then lingers near his wardrobe, pulling a tailcoat from the last hanger, and setting it beside the shirt and pants. He retrieves dress shoes, as scuffed as they are now, but they’ll have to do. He wants to make a good first impression.

Slipping his clothes off and replacing them with the new ones, he applies a bit of cologne under his jawline and fastens the shirt, along with the coat. He wonders if wearing gloves would be a bit too far and settles on leaving his hands bare, preferring to be hands-on and feeling the grip of his gun, cold against his palm anyway.

He’s pulling his shoes on when he looks at the clock again, relieved when it’s only been about six minutes. That leaves him at about thirty minutes, so he’s already doing pretty well.

Standing, he moves to the side of his bed and tugs the wooden case out from under it, lifting a bag and pushing several weapons into it. Luckily, he’s made a name for himself, so if anyone sees him with these kinds of weapons, they only need to ask his name, and they’ll leave him be. On the other hand, it is also just as much of a curse, because he is constantly cursed at for killing one of God’s creations. He’s tried to retort with the truth, but they only ever deny that and continue to harass him.

Whatever, he supposes. He gets over it pretty quickly, as he’s learned to do over the years.

Lifting the bag over his shoulder, he groans and moves out of the room, glancing out at the street as he passes a window. Really, in retrospect, he’s lucky, and he got the warm end of the branding iron, rather than the ice cold, in terms of money. It’s not the best, no, but it’s the smiles on people’s faces, when they know they’re safe, that really makes up for it.

Walking out the door, he’s careful to set all of the locks to fall when he shuts it, hearing all four latch when he does. It’s a tricky and sketchy-looking system, especially when he’s going in, but he doesn’t really care. It keeps him safe.

He takes his time walking to the station, keeping to himself as he walks along the sidewalks and scans the area. You can never be too careful.

When he finally reaches the station, the train is already sitting there, so he purchases a ticket and seats himself towards the middle. It’s the safest place, as the back can catch on fire or can be unlatched extremely easily, and the front can just be a bit too close to the engine. If the smoke from cigars isn’t already enough for you, that would be what sets it off.

Sitting back in his seat, he hikes a foot up onto his knee, retrieving the book from his bag and skimming over those same paragraphs from before. It may not be the most efficient way to learn the passage, but he has hope that if he approaches it on different days, he’ll have a different perspective and understand it a bit better every time. It’s worked so far, after all.

 

* * *

The train ride is long and drawn out, but it doesn’t really bother Arthur. He wonders what this O’Malley feller will be like, and if they will get along. Charles is definitely a friendly guy when you’re not the first to be unkind, but Arthur’s a completely different story. He’s standoffish, and only a few people understand particularly why.

He doesn’t care to much discuss it.

Pulling himself off of the train seat when the car comes to a stop, he packs his book into the bag and latches it shut again, lifting the bag onto his shoulder again.

Moving along the car and stepping out onto the ground, he brushes himself off and straightens his coat. John hadn’t been too specific when mentioning that O’Malley was staying in Annesburg. A specific house would’ve been nice, or a general area, considering that this is a mining town. He could be living down in the mines for all Arthur knows, hiding from the law.

The train puffs a cloud of smog into the air as it picks up speed and leaves for the next station, Arthur turning around and looking across the street at the gunsmith. He supposes he could simply ask around, despite the danger it might put him and O’Malley into, if the law is really on his tail, but he’s a bit desperate, and he needs all the help he can get.

Marching over the tracks, still warm from where the wheels had skidded to a stop just a few minutes before, he looks at the post office. Maybe it’s better to ask there, seeing as he’s paid off a bounty or two after killing the wrong person.

Running a finger along his collar at the thought, he pulls himself up onto the wooden platform and pushes in the doors. Immediately, the station clerk looks up and asks, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m uh,” Arthur clears his throat, stepping closer as he sees the others around the room. If it really is as serious as he’s making it out to be in his mind, he’ll want to keep it pretty quiet. “I’m looking for an… Aiden O’Malley?” Arthur’s voice gets even quieter with the name, watching as the station clerk stiffens.

“Yes,” the man nods, clearing his throat. “Stayin’ up on the hill, he is. Doesn’t come out much.”

“Which house?” Arthur glances out the dirty window, likely having been cleaned and then mudded up again by the wind while still wet.

“That one,” the clerk points, his shoulders raised to his ears when Arthur looks back at him. “I wouldn’t go lingerin’ around up there, though.”

“Why’s that?” Arthur’s brows knit together in confusion. “He do somethin’?”

“No, he just… he’s the town freak, if you understand?” The clerk gnaws at his own bottom lip, thumbs twiddling as he explains.

“‘Fraid I don’t, sir.” Arthur pushes. “What do you mean?”

“He… well, all the mothers tell their kids not to go playin’ up by that house, y’know? E’rrybody knew almost immediately.” The clerk looks to be sweating all of a sudden, and Arthur thinks he understands. His eyebrows raise and his jaw drops a bit.

“Oh.” Arthur tenses. He hadn’t thought he’d be meeting with someone like that, though he doesn’t quite remember what he was expecting, now that he really thinks about it.

“No, no,” the clerk sees the look on Arthur’s face. “Not— you know, you should go see for yourself. It ain’t easy to explain him.” Arthur slowly nods, his face still reflecting that of confusion. What in the hell has this man done?

“Thank you, then,” Arthur backs up and spins on his heel, eyes set on the house. “We’ll see you soon.”

Arthur thinks he hears a “hopefully we won’t” from the man, but disregards it as he trots along towards the house. Now he’s got two entirely conflicting opinions, but he trusts his friends more than he does some random man. Then again, human intuition is absolutely something to follow, and that clerk had outrageous amounts of nervousness pouring out of him.

Nearing the house, he notices that it is much nicer and tidier than the others, but he doesn’t really mind. A clean house is a safe house.

Arthur steps closer to the door, raising his hand to knock but hearing something on the inside. Leaning a bit closer, he hears the sound of piano keys, multiple at once. He’d like to say that they’re playing something he recognises, but it’s likely something he’s walked past and caught onto during his life. He has a habit of doing that.

After rapping his knuckles against the door, he takes a step back and shifts his weight to stand straight with the bag over his shoulder. The piano stops, though from Arthur’s lack of musical experience, it sounded like the song wasn’t over yet. However, whoever was playing it, made an end, right there in the song, somehow. It was beautiful, in a way.

Arthur watches as the door opens and he’s greeted by a man, standing there in a deep grey suit, almost to match his own.

“May I help you,” the man asks, looking up at Arthur, who parts his lips slowly after taking in the sliver of the house he can see from the slightly-open doorway.

“Yes, actually, I was told I could find an Aiden O’Malley up here?” The man’s face splits into a grin when he hears the name, a stark contrast from the unwelcoming expression he’d had beforehand.

“That would be myself, come in,” he gestures for Arthur to enter, the man nodding and moving in. It’s not as if he has much choice of doing otherwise, simply following the movement of his arm as it points him inside. “Make yourself at home. It’s quaint, but it’s nice.”

Immediately, Arthur notices the drapes covering a large window in the back, the sun making them glow a deep honey colour in comparison to the dark brown they really are. The walls are a soft burgundy, beautiful from an outsider’s perspective, especially from the perspective of one who has never fancied himself an interior designer.

“May I know your name?” Arthur looks back and slowly nods, still wondering why the man changed so quickly as soon as he’d mentioned the name.

“Arthur.” The man says curtly, following it up immediately. “Arthur Morgan.”

“I’ve heard about you.” Aiden’s eyes gleam as he smiles and sits on the sofa, plush and looking to be a white velvet, ane expensive, at that. Really, in general, the main room is gorgeous. He wonders what the rest of the house might look like. “The vampire hunter, is that right?” Arthur smiles a bit, taking pride in knowing that Aiden knows him for what he does, not the prices on his head in other states.

“It is,” Arthur nods, sitting beside Aiden on the sofa when it’s offered to him. “And I heard that you are in a similar kind of business, aren’t you?”

“Somewhat,” Aiden shrugs a bit, leaning back and tossing his arms over the back of the sofa to stretch them out across the edge. “You are definitely more skilled than I am. You clean up well, too, just remembering some of your pictures from earlier years.”

“Sure,” Arthur agrees, laughing a bit to humour Aiden. Clearly the man sitting beside Arthur is really the one who has all of the brain in situations. “I heard from an outside source that you’re huntin’ the Grizzlies vampire.”

“Oh, yes sir, I am.” Aiden nods, grinning from ear to ear under that finely-groomed moustache of his, resting just above his lips in a perfect formation.

“You are? Oh, that’s great. I hoped I wasn’t comin’ to some random guy’s house and askin’ about that, don’t need another round of questions thrown at my head, y’know?”

“Of course.” Aiden nods, scooting a bit closer and leaning over his knees a bit. “Tell me, what do you know about vampires, Arthur?”

“Ah… about vampires?” Arthur wants Aiden to elaborate, but it seems that he will not as soon as their eyes meet and Aiden urges him on with an impatient hand and an excited smile to boot. “Well, the garlic thing…” he clears his throat a bit. “Not good with silver stakes, and crucifixes. The sun. Mirrors.” Aiden seems to be getting a kick out of this, from the way his lips are pursed to keep in a laugh. “What?”

“I apologise, but really, that’s all wrong.” Arthur’s eyebrows raise and he feels offended. Of course it’s right, he’s seen it happen right before his eyes. He’s watched a vampire drink wine with just a hint of garlic, then break out in blisters and boil to death, and he’s watched one disappear in a maze of mirrors, backed with silver. “Don’t take it personally, son, but it’s not correct.”

“What do you mean? I—”

“None of the things in your bag will kill a vampire. Well, not _this_ vampire.”

“Huh?”

“Think of Dracula.”

“A fake character?”

“Not as fake as you’re lead to believe, Arthur.” Aiden’s eyes narrow and he grins wider. “Use your imagination a little bit. Think about it.” He looks at Arthur as Arthur’s lips purse and he thinks a little more on it. “The son of the devil, is that right? Vladislaus Draculia.”

“I… think so. See, I ain’t too good at readin’, don’t quite remember.”

“It is. Do you remember who killed him, Arthur?” Arthur’s eyes slide to the side as he thinks about it, brows furrowing.

“God?”

“Yes, but get specific.” Aiden leans in a bit more, Arthur smelling his scent now. He smells like pomade and expensive cologne. “The _left hand_ of God. Do you remember who that was?”

“ _Who_ that was?”

“ _Think_ , Arthur! Gabriel. Gabriel Van Helsing. Does that ring a bell?” Arthur sits back a bit, understanding a bit more why the town below them fears and avoids him. He’s certainly off-puttingly passionate.

“Sure,” Arthur nods, and it does. He remembers reading about that. An archangel, sent to earth to kill Vladislaus. Yes, he begins to remember it a bit more.

“And you remember why this was so important?”

“Ah…” Arthur hums a bit as he shakes his head.

“Goodness, Arthur, we’ve got so much to talk about.” Arthur pauses, confused.

“Why?”

“You must first understand the history, Arthur. You must understand the ‘why’ before you understand the ‘what’.” If this is an English joke, Arthur doesn’t get it, just as he doesn’t understand why Aiden is so boisterous about all of this. It’s worrying, almost. Like he might know a little too much. Has he known a vampire? The _Grizzlies_ vampire, personally?

This plunges them into several branches of conversation, where Aiden continues talking Arthur’s ear off about the truth behind vampires. How they drink blood only to soothe themselves, and they only take one or two for months. That’s all they need. Aiden explains that this is the reason some people believe they are God’s creation, because they have their gives and takes, rather than taking everything. It’s like a social hierarchy, as Aiden helps Arthur to understand. Humans always thought that they were at the top, but really, vampires were just a step above them. Have been since the dawn of time.

Aiden reminds Arthur that they have wings, that Vladislaus’s own father locked him away to never see the light of day, until the devil gave him wings, and he learned to fly. Evolution, Aiden called it. What a subject; Arthur was confused by it. How could a human become something so devilish in just a few seconds? Like a giant bat, Aiden had described. With huge fangs and a terrifying exterior. How?

Hour after hour passes, until it’s gotten visibly dark outside. Surprisingly, Arthur has enjoyed his time spent here. He got to learn the reality, and in general, it makes sense. For the most part.

Aiden looks at the window after pointing out that only a vampire borne of another is affected by garlic, his eyes going wide.

“My, it’s gotten late,” Aiden sighs. “You must be getting home, right? You said you lived in Saint Denis?”

“Right,” Arthur nods, looking at his journal, where he’d been taking notes. “I can get a stage.” Arthur slowly stands, reaching out for Aiden’s hand to shake it. “I hope we meet again, this’s been… excitin’.”

“Oh!” Aiden stands, taking Arthur’s hand. “There will be a ball in just a few days, up in the West Grizzlies, at an old dance hall.”

“A ball?” Arthur’s brows furrow in confusion. “With dancin’, an’ all that?”

“Sure. There will be masks, and everyone is required to have one.”

“‘Fraid I don’t have one.” Arthur sighs, wondering if Aiden was planning on inviting him.

“Oh, well I’m sure we can have one prepared for you at the door.”

“Who all will be there?”

“Other vampire hunters, like yourself and mine.” Arthur’s heart leaps. Really? More of them? Perhaps he can compare the information he’s gathered tonight, with all of the others. If nothing else, it will be enlightening in that aspect. “I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me?”

“As a partner?” Arthur steps back a bit. Had he figured? Is it that easy to see that he’s been with men?

“You can be, if you so desire.” Aiden steps closer, with a smug smirk on his face as he takes Arthur’s hand again, cold rings placing themselves against the back of Arthur’s hand. “Or you can simply join as a friendly companion.” Arthur notices how the look Aiden is giving him, makes his chest heave with a bit of delightful pain.

“I’ll go,” Arthur nods. Aiden’s face lights up in a pleased smile, immediately directing Arthur towards the door. Even if Aiden is going to be strange about it, it’s a possibility of a lifetime. Had he known this was going on before, he would’ve waited to meet Aiden there. Then again, they wouldn’t’ve had this conversation, and Arthur would be way behind speed, as he had been when they first met.

“I will see you there, then. Nine o’ clock at night, and you may stay as long as you so desire,” Aiden smiles as Arthur nods and waves, turning to walk himself down the steps.

The door shuts behind him, and suddenly, the titillating feeling in his chest disappears.


	3. III

Arthur does ride a stagecoach home, sitting in the box and wondering if he’d gotten everything down in his journal. At one point, he has to erase something and make an edit, the coach shuddering from the wind knocking it halfway off the road and causing Arthur to draw a dark line across the page. He grumbles for a moment as he erases it and tries to fix the letters he’d ruined, attempting to hear them on Aiden’s tongue to spell them right.

Aiden was…  _ is _ fascinating.

Arthur fingers the top right corner of a page in his journal, flipping it and idly thinking about the man. The way he made Arthur feel, and the way his moustache fell over those lips which spoke words Arthur could only describe as remarkable. The way his hands, one adorned with two stunningly gold rings, flew about and drew fantastical images of angels versus demons; of victoriously epic scenes of ancient battles past.

Not to mention his hair, a sleek black vision with waves of disorder, particularly around the base of the man’s neck, but Arthur, strangely, found comfort in it. In the past, he’s been strongly against disorder, having always preferred a sense of organisation to everything. But he finds himself almost  _ liking _ the disarray. It’s… beautiful.

Arthur remembers the pounding in his chest when Aiden pulled him to his feet and stretched Arthur’s arm to his side, the touch of the man’s hands so soft on his covered skin. Even through it, he could feel the difference in temperature. Clearly, living so much further north alters one’s natural skin temperature. It  _ is  _ pretty cold in Annesburg as it is. That said, Arthur remembers those fingers running along the back of his hand, positioning Arthur’s fingers into a shape not unlike the bow of an angel’s wing. The strong grip on his wrists as Aiden guided his hands in a flight-like motion.

He had felt like an angel with Aiden’s fingers on him. Something about the voice in his ear, explaining what the wing of an angel looks and feels like, made chills run up and down his spine.

“A halo,” Aiden had said. “Golden and glowing, rests here,” those fingers had tapped Arthur’s head, gently touching the crown of his skull. “To signify the importance and the purity of an angel.” Arthur had felt the pressure of Aiden’s fingers on his arm again, guiding it in a slow motion. “Unfortunately, an angel must earn his wings, and until then, looks just as any human would, going essentially unrecognised.”

Maybe Aiden had been speaking about himself. He seemed like he’d fit the description, with his looks, and the way the lenses fell over his eyes and accentuated their golden brown colour.

“I understand,” Arthur had said, turning around in Aiden’s arms and looking him in the eyes. There had been a long silence, a long pause where they stood in silence, Arthur incapable of keeping his gaze away. “All beautiful things seem to be like that.”

“Of course,” Aiden had leant forward, Arthur swears that. Their eyes had gotten even closer to one another, and Arthur couldn’t move. Aiden hadn’t had a hand on Arthur, but his muscles were stunned. Aiden moved forward even more, and Arthur could feel the man’s breath on his lip, along with the thumb hovering on his chin. He would’ve kissed Aiden there, if it weren’t for the man pulling away at the last moment, and leaving Arthur to stutter and backtrack entirely.

“You… um,” Arthur’s face must have been a fiery red at that point, because all he could do was stumble over his words and take a step back. “I—”

“An angel can be very tempting, you see.” Aiden had stepped around Arthur again, touching the back of Arthur’s neck as he drew lines parallel to Arthur’s spine, ranging from the base of his skull to his shoulder blades. There, they stopped and spread just an inch. “Almost as tempting as a siren.”

“Why did you… I don’t understand.”

“You should learn to distance yourself. If you do not,” Aiden nears again, stepping so delicately around Arthur to drag a hand along Arthur’s jawling. “You will find yourself so very lost, so very quickly.”

Arthur pauses as he notices the way his mind is travelling, his hand stopping in its motions across the page. He hadn’t noticed that he’d been sketching, but it seems he has. Upon further inspection of it, he begins to notice the unkempt hair, even more so than it had been in reality. The face he’d depicted Aiden making, though, forces him to shut the journal and swallow harshly. He breathes deep, his shoulders raising as he continues down the path from which he’d tried to save his mind just moments before. But it’s such a nice thought. A fellow vampire hunter, right there, teasing and leading Arthur on.

Arthur puts pressure on the journal and keeps it shut against his leg, as if any amount of his weight would be able to keep the sinful devil on that page, at bay. Those eyes are obviously thinking the things Arthur had been.

Getting out of the stagecoach, he smiles and hands over the cash, moving up towards his house. He still carries his bag on his shoulder, back straight as he thinks about the conversations he’d had with Aiden O’Malley, who now seems to be the most gorgeous person to ever walk the face of the earth. Even the vampire he’d gotten the chance to speak to, with her siren-like features, does not compare in the slightest.

Turning the corner, he feels the slightest touch on his shoulder. Pausing and looking back, there is no one. Clearing his throat, he glances around and skims the area for anyone having seen that, anyone possibly wondering what is going on inside of his head right now. He regains his posture and continues in his stride, this time feeling a hand slide along the length of his arm before grabbing it. He looks to see nothing there again, the pressure gone. What the hell? Is it the wind? Perhaps he’s just gone paranoid with all of these thoughts of Aiden in his mind.

Again, he regains his composure and continues on, his legs working a bit harder as he nears his front door.

Just as he’s about to come into view with it, a voice whispers just beside his ear, and he can almost feel the hot breath on his neck.

“A gift for you, pretty boy,” it whispers, and Arthur freezes. Not from the voice or the touches, but the kicked-in door of his home, his safe-haven. He rushes forward, his jaw completely slack.

“No, no!” Arthur cries, hurrying around the space and making sure that nothing has been stolen. Then he remembers, after seeing several rooms untouched, and moves to his office. Sure enough, the door was also kicked in. Stepping through the threshold, Arthur’s jaw drops again at the lack of things in the room.  _ Everything _ is gone, aside a mirror, hung intricately on the wall.

As Arthur approaches it, he sees fangs and the devil’s horns drawn on the mirror, supposedly in blood, matching up with Arthur’s face from where he’s standing.

Arthur collapses to his knees. Everything he’d worked on, all of the leads he’d gathered. All gone.


	4. IV

“A vampire attack,” Arthur says to John, holding the newspaper up to John’s nose for him to see. “A goddamn attack, and when I’m gone,  _ of course _ .” John takes the paper from Arthur, setting it down on the table and leaning over to calm him. If something this worrisome hadn’t happened, he likely would not have allowed Arthur in. Now, they’re sitting in John’s home, Arthur ranting and fervently pacing back and forth.

“Arthur, please, you’re gonna dig a hole through my floor.” John reaches out to take Arthur’s wrist and stop him, but Arthur tugs it away.

“Do you see what’s goin’ on, John? At  _ all _ ?” Arthur shouts, John flinching with the volume of his voice. “I’m bein’ targeted, and that stupid Grizzlies vampire is tryin’ to get at me. Either he  _ knew _ I wasn’t there, or he was just shit outta luck. Either way, I lost everythin’.” Arthur pauses in his spot, taking a breath. “I lost…”

“Not everythin’, Arthur. Really. Think about it.” John tries to help, and after trying to veer Arthur away from this Grizzlies vampire thing, he finally accepts that Arthur will not let it go. Then again, there was a witness this time, and John can’t fight with that kind of competition. John pushes himself up. “All of that bullshit was nothin’ compared to what’s goin’ on in here,” John taps Arthur’s head, “right? That’s what you always say, innit?”

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and looks up at John. He supposes the man’s right, but he’s never been through this stage of grief before — he’s not even sure what to call it. Even when his things were stolen before, they were stolen by a human, and they were terrible at hiding their tracks. This time, he’s up against something which, as Aiden had easily explained to him many times, had wings. Can fly.  _ Can’t be tracked. _ “I guess.” John nods once, takes hold of Arthur’s shoulders, and keeps him in his spot.

“How did your meetin’ with Aiden O’Malley go?” Arthur pauses, heaving a breath.

“It was…” Arthur is left with his mouth open as he shakes his head and looks to the side, trying to summon up a word for what it was without saying “hot”, as his mind severely craves to. “Informative.”

“Oh?” John sees the change in mood, letting go of Arthur’s shoulders. “That’s one hell of a big word, Arthur. Never heard you use that kinda talk. What happened?”

“I don’t really wanna… waste your time with that.”

“Oh, come on, Arthur, sure you do. Y’look like you’re about to explode.”

“I think I need to be goin’, I got a house to clean now, an’ info to make up for an’—”

“Spill it, Arthur.” John crosses his arms and leans back against the table, eyeing Arthur precisely as Aiden had. Only, Aiden was much more appealing than John, in many, many ways. Starting with the cheekbones, and that angel’s kiss pressed just below Aiden’s left eye. Gorgeous. “You came here to talk to me, so talk.”

“We talked about bloodsuckers, is all.”

“You wouldn’t react like that if that were true, Arthur. I know you better than you think I do.” John stands straight again and moves forward, Arthur standing his ground now. He’ll prove to John that he doesn’t need to explain what happened, because he’ll make it seem as if nothing did. He knows John will only get jealous, and he doesn’t want to create any kind of a triangle between the three of them… more or less. It’s a cycle of pining, at the very least. For John is Arthur, for Arthur is Aiden. That is how it seems it shall continue to be.

“I would. You know I ain’t ever been good with words, Marston.” John pauses, squaring his shoulders as if he’s about to throw a fist, but Arthur knows he won’t. Not without a reason, and not at Arthur. Never at Arthur.

“No, you ain’t.” Arthur crosses his arms and looks down just a touch at John, who now looks like a lost puppy, craving the answer to his question. “Don’t mean you ain’t good with your tongue.” Arthur tilts his head. Is this really where the evening is going? After Arthur’s lost everything, and after being teased mercilessly by Aiden? He swears he’ll never look at another man the same way he looked at Aiden, just as he believes Aiden looked at him in a way no one had before. Not even the she-vampire.

“John, I really… I got to be goin’.” John looks at him and hardly furrows his brows, but Arthur sees it, especially in John’s shoulders, which slump noticeably.

“I see.” He nods, turning and leading Arthur towards the door. This has happened many times now, and Arthur could tell anyone exactly where paintings were hung on the wall, what colour they were, and what they were of, mostly because he’s never gone into the other rooms, only been escorted in and out. “When will I get that, Arthur?” Arthur turns around and looks at him, halfway out the front door.

“Get what?”

“You know what.” John snaps, though it’s got a fraction of the usual venom. “The happy Arthur, drunk or not. The smiles and the ‘I love you’s, friendly or not at all. I miss those so much.” Arthur looks away, a pitying look on his face. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

He and John had been good friends once upon a time, when they were younger and much dumber. They didn’t care about the world or the evil living in it, they only cared about who climbed to the highest branch in the apple tree outside of Arthur’s house. Those were the days, but now they are gone. The days of naïvety; the days of meaningless joy. And Arthur can’t say he misses them, as much as he does.

There’s not much to regret in those days, seeing as he can simply pass it off as Arthur being a teen, young and dumb, but he does regret the first night he and John had broken into the alcohol cabinet in Arthur’s father’s room. The man had been passed out drunk, so Arthur had snuck in and snagged a bottle of cheap wine. Bringing it outside, he and John had shared it, leant with their backs against that apple tree and laughing as the alcohol consumed their minds.

Then Arthur made a mistake.

He’d looked over and got much too curious much too quickly, because he’d grabbed John’s hand and pulled him out, far away from the house. Letting go of John once they were far enough from everyone, from society and civilisation, drunk out of their teenage minds, Arthur pulled his best friend into a kiss. It was sloppy, yes, but Arthur, as young and as blissfully unaware as he was, loved it. So did John.

Arthur remembers them kissing until their mouths were rather dry, from the wine or not, and he remembers them falling to the ground. Arthur had lied back and looked up at the stars, slowly dancing across the sky with the moon above the western mountains, and John had lied next to him.

It meant nothing to Arthur, especially compared to what it meant to John.

To Arthur it was something to do, especially at first. But it slowly began to mean more, especially as their lips collided messily with one another, teeth knocking and tongues dancing to two completely different songs. When Arthur became conflicted with the idea of it, his mind must’ve shut the idea of it being real, out. Now, when he thinks about it, it remains dreamlike. He remembers the feeling, how it drew him in, as it should; his body wills it to happen, but his mind seemed to be behind. Still seems to be behind.

So when John approached him about it just a few days later, Arthur didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t reality to him, how could John be treating it so heavily, when it was nothing more than a dream? A fever dream, at that, considering how warm it was that night. So Arthur joked until John’s face turned to that of solemn displeasure, but John was never mean enough to say that it affected him like that.

Arthur was never good at reading people, and he remains that way to this day, but he saw the look in John’s eyes.

His apology to John might’ve been the truest thing he’s ever felt in his heart of bronze, and seeing the tears glinting against the tannish-brown of those eyes might’ve been the moment he’d realised that it meant something to him, too. He didn’t know what;  _ doesn’t _ know what, but it’s there, and it seems to be staying.

“Did you say it to him?” John asks, and Arthur looks at him, confused.

“What?”

“That feller, did you say you loved him?” John looks hurt. It’s that look, the one which convinced Arthur to stay, even after he’d gotten over it. It’s like puppy dog eyes, but far more pitiful. A silent disappointment; a silent sadness.

“No. What are you on about, now?” Arthur turns around and steps back into the house, shutting the door behind him and looking at John. They need privacy for this, no matter what John is jabbing at right now.

“You’re actin’ strange. Like… like when we got drunk that one night an’—”

“I remember.” Arthur cuts him off, making him look up and frown further. Now it’s a deep-set regret and disappointment. For what, Arthur has no clue.

“So now you want to forget that, do you?”

“Don’t start puttin’ words in my mouth, John. I never said that.”

“Then why do you never treat me like that anymore?” Arthur feels as if the whole world stills; goes silent. “Why don’t you smile when you see me, or kiss me? It’s been months, Arthur, since I last kissed you, other than last night, and that doesn’t  _ really _ count, in my book. You were obviously not into it.”

“I’ve been busy, I—”

“You’ve been busy, Arthur?” John snaps, and Arthur glares at him a bit when he does, slightly frightening Arthur with the volume and the temper in his tone. “You’ve always been ‘busy’. That’s always it, innit? That’s all you ever are.”

“You’re being ridiculous!” Arthur tries to raise his voice a bit, but John doesn’t back down from his senseless ranting about how irritatingly annoying it is to work with Arthur, let alone be in a relationship with him.

“No, I don’t think—” Arthur grabs John by the shirt collar, acting on impulse more than anything else. He pushes his lips against John’s, and immediately, he feels John heave a heavy sigh through his nose and pull Arthur closer. John’s arms rest around Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur’s around John’s hips, as little of a place there is to rest them at all, with John’s figure.

John doesn’t pull away, so Arthur begins to wonder if this was the right idea. What is possibly going through John’s mind right now? Is he also acting on impulse, instead of doing the supposedly right thing and pushing Arthur away? Maybe.

Arthur wonders if John will be the one to take his mind off of Aiden. Maybe a roll in the sheets with someone he’s been with before (fulfilling that need for consistency, which Arthur craves so very much) will put him back on the straight and narrow and he can regain his focus on what he really needs to be putting thought into: his work.

“Arthur,” John whispers against Arthur’s neck, hands hooked around his alternate elbows and keeping Arthur locked between them. “What are you doin’?”

“Kissin’ you,” Arthur says, and John laughs, pleasing Arthur. It had been less of a joke and more of a cry for help, because he simply does not know what he’s doing, but it’s good that John is loosening up a bit more.

“What do you wanna do?”

“Whatever you want.” John smiles wider than before, looking Arthur in his sea blues.

“Anythin’?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”


	5. V

Arthur comes to terms with his consciousness late in the morning, noticing his arm around someone and slowly pulling himself closer.

The man in front of him grunts a bit with the arm tightening around his waist, but Arthur recognises the voice immediately. It’s John; of course it’s John. Who else would it be? It was wishful thinking on Arthur’s part hoping it was Aiden, but of course, it’s John.

“Good mornin’, sunshine,” John mutters, smiling. Luckily, he’s turned away, so he can’t see the look on Arthur’s face as he recognises that it’s not Aiden. “You sleep well?” Arthur nods, his fingers closing into fists as he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to do. He remembers the mistake he made, the moment where John had pulled back and looked Arthur in the face with such a confusion; such a hurt in his eyes. He’d said Aiden’s name.

“Sure,” Arthur nods, yawning and beginning to pull himself away from John. He’s stopped by a hand around his wrist, tugging him back. It’s not harsh or demanding, but pleading, especially when John turns and looks over his shoulder to give Arthur those puppy dog eyes.

“I wanna lay down for a while,” John says, and Arthur nods, slowly blinking and looking at the bed where he had just been resting. He settles back in after a moment, lying down and shutting his eyes. At the very least, he can fall asleep again and return to Aiden’s arms, imagining further what the ball will be like. If the man will approach as he had before and play with Arthur’s emotions again, or if he will pretend like nothing had ever happened.

In his mind’s eye, Aiden bows, as does Arthur. They slowly approach, their noses only a few inches apart as Aiden leads Arthur in a dance he’s never heard the name of, even less knows how to perform. The easiest explanation for this would have to be that he’s never had the chance to learn  _ any _ kind of dance. He’s always been hands-on with things, and he’s never needed to be graceful, as brute-force has always gotten the work done for him. After all, there really is no need to point his toes when he’s got the barrel of a sawed-off to someone’s head.

Arthur can hear the music, notes playing a rhythmic melody as the scent of Aiden fills his nose again.

He wonders if this is wrong, thinking about a man like this, a man who is not John, and has not made a true move towards Arthur. Arthur had only taken the lesson as a step forward, and likely enjoyed it much more than it was intended to be enjoyed. Aiden is not one to be lusted after, anyway. He is a man with far too much money for his own good, clearly, and he probably travels more than he actually settles down. He’s probably a man who likes only meeting a bloodsucker once, before staking them and tossing them aside as they should be. Arthur would only be a bump in the road for him, or a several powerful waves crashing against the hull of his boat in the middle of the sea. Arthur would only be a minor inconvenience, and Aiden doesn’t deserve to be weighed down by Arthur as he certainly would be.

Arthur feels lips against his own, his breath catching in his throat as he keeps his eyes shut. He sees Aiden, sees the angel’s kiss on his cheek from his point of view, and kisses back slowly, pressing forward to return just as much pressure was provided. Aiden’s hands glide up to his shoulders, and Arthur pulls back to watch as the scene changes.

Arthur finds himself standing with Aiden, held within four walls draped in white, accented by dark mahogany dressers and black bed frames. Gorgeous, and absolutely fitting.

Aiden gives him that look, the one where he raises his eyebrows and smiles just a little bit, and Arthur can’t help himself. He’s aware that he’s dreaming, but somehow, it feels so real when he lurches forward and joins his lips with Aiden’s again, this time with a fervent passion in his chest. He kisses harder, feeling it reciprocated before Aiden pulls away.

“Arthur? I never… you ain’t ever kissed me like that before.”

The whole scene disintegrates and Arthur opens his eyes to see John mirroring his surprised expression, except with a pleased touch Arthur lacks.

“John.”

“Come here,” John must be reading Arthur wrong, because he matches his lips with Arthur’s and tries to begin that kiss again, tries to replicate what Arthur had done to get him back in the mood. “Shit, I love this side o’ you. Tired an’ horny.”

“John, I—”

“Shush, I know.” John doesn’t listen to the strain in Arthur’s voice as he tries to speak, and Arthur is left to pushing him away, disgusted with himself. Look what he’s done now, picturing someone in John’s place, who he shouldn’t be with in the first place. One man with another should not be allowed; is not allowed. Arthur is already so far wrong.

“Stop, I need— I need to breathe,” John shakes his head, and Arthur finally recognises his own breathlessness clawing at the inside of his throat. John’s mouth is back on his and suddenly, Arthur sees how lost he already is. His heart is pounding, he needs to  _ breathe. _

Arthur tries to push at John’s shoulders, eyebrows clenching together as he fights for air, vision going all spotty as he lacks the air he needs in these kinds of moments. Not even the little gasps between the brushes of lips could save him now, he needs to get away. Needs to find his head, needs to find steady ground, needs to stand outside or something, and  _ soon _ .

“John,” he pleads, and as a last ditch effort, he throws a weak fist at John’s side. John pulls away finally, a disgusted sound leaving his throat. Arthur shoves and kicks and fights with the covers until he feels the floorboards under his feet. He doesn’t care if he’s nude, and he likely is, from how cold the wall is against his backside when he falls against it and heaves breath after breath.

Falling to his knees and letting out a heavy cough, he pushes his back to the wall and bends his legs to place the flats of his feet firmly against the floor, his head spinning and his breath finally crawling back to him, but still  _ not crawling fast enough _ . Wheezes pass through his lips with the gasps between harsh hawking.

“Arthur?” John’s fuzzy figure can be seen looking over the edge of the bed, and all Arthur does to keep him away is wave an angry, uncoordinated hand at him, the thinnest tears fogging his vision more than it already is. “Are you alright?” The shape climbs out of the bed and moves towards Arthur, who tries to move away.

“Stop—” Arthur barks up another cough into the side of his fist, looking up at John with an expression which can only be read as scared. The fact that Arthur’s not cleaning the small drop of saliva from his bottom lip is a clear sign of his fright, as well, and John backs up, perhaps, finally understanding what is being demanded of him. Too little too late.

Arthur’s vision comes back just before he stands and his head spins, hacking another cough into his fist as he holds himself against the wall and looks around for his clothes. He needs to get out,  _ now _ . Needs a minute to think and clear his head.

Finally, he spots a messy pile of his clothes and stumbles over to them, his vision finally straightening as he takes a few steps in succession and picks them up. It’s a struggle to pull them all on, but he begins to tip as he tries to pulls his pants on, and John rushes forward to catch him.

“Get away from me.” Arthur harshly shoves at him, watching as he hits the wall and looks at Arthur with a look of mixed fear and disgust, each expression so starkly different from the other, but blending together fine.

Arthur disregards John as he finally pulls his boots on and spins for the door, marching towards it and angrily pushing himself through the doorway with a hand on the wooden frame. He’s able to get himself to the front door after stopping around a few corners, making a break for the last of it and finding that he’s capable of catching the handle and pushing himself into the warm air. He finds a place along the wall to rest, finally leaning against it, in a place where John is incapable of kissing him. There are too many people outside; too many people to witness it.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I didn’t…” Arthur glares up at John. “You kissed me, I thought…”

“Shut it. I don’t give a shit.” Arthur snaps, looking away and brushing a hand through his bangs. “So much goin’ on for me, you try to use me when I’m down, and I tell you to leave me alone. What do you do? You keep pushin’. What the hell is goin’ on in your head that says that that’s okay, Marston?” Arthur stands, his face flushing red as he barks at John.

“Calm down, Arthur, I wouldn’ta—”

“If you didn’t just prove otherwise to me, maybe I woulda believed you.”

“Arthur—”

“I’m goin’ home. Don’t…” Arthur turns back over his shoulder to shake his head and glare at John. “Don’t bother yourself with comin’ around anymore.”

With this, he turns and marches himself down the steps, out of John’s sight, hopefully, to Arthur, for good.


	6. VI

The ride back home is horrid.

Arthur sits on the train seat with thoughts rushing so haphazardly through his mind, it’s like there’s no filter that could possibly stop the thoughts from escaping if someone simply asked: “what’s wrong?”. At the very least, knowing that no one would approach him to ask, kept just a bit of his peace of mind.

Arthur simply doesn’t know what to do. He needs some space, yes, and he needs just a few minutes to catch his breath, but it seems that he’s gone and given himself too much wiggle room.

He has now sacrificed everything for a man he’s not only met once, but feels a strange connection to after only meeting him once. The man in question probably hadn’t even been trying, and Arthur was reading his intentions wrong. He’s probably not even into guys. After all, it’s hard to find many of those, seeing as everyone believes it to be disgusting, but Arthur doesn’t really care. He’s not open about it like some others are, and luckily, John had the same intentions of keeping it under wraps.

_ Had _ .

That word strikes fear into Arthur, and he worries about what the meaning behind that word truly is. He wonders if they’re really separated now, for good, or if John will come crawling back and beg him to stay. Wouldn’t be the first time, as Arthur remembers, but he can’t quite recall what the context of the last time was.

Arthur is easy to manipulate, and that much is certain, but he tries his best to see the good parts of scenarios in the worst.

He stares at the backs of people’s heads as they rock back and forth, almost as if synchronised by the movement of the train car. He’s intrigued by their togetherness, but it still doesn’t draw his mind away from Aiden. If anything, it reminds him  _ more _ of the man, and the way all of his movements seemed planned; choreographed. Like Arthur was trapped in an opera, like he was simply being swayed unknowingly by Aiden’s voice and movements.

Arthur shakes his head and lowers his eyes to his palms, but again, he remembers Aiden’s fingers holding his own so tightly; so delicately, as he lead Arthur through the motions of an angels wing, and again when he was comparing Arthur’s skin tone to that of a vampire’s.

It seemed that everything Arthur knew about vampires was wrong. They were not all pale, and they didn’t all need as much blood as they were taking. Only the “newborns”, as Aiden had called them, ridiculously so in Arthur’s mind, really needed as much blood as they had been taking. Humans were simply not fending them off in the right ways, and they continued to return and take more than they really needed.

Arthur shakes his head again, looking out the window. This time, he doesn’t see Aiden. Not at all. He sees himself in the reflection, and he looks sad. Not in the way of the expression, no. Arthur just looks pathetic. He feels pathetic.

John had entrusted Arthur with his faith and his loyalty, and Arthur threw that away, because he simply couldn’t get it up for John anymore. Then again, in Arthur’s mind, it had been a good idea. He’d explained to John that they were not compatible anymore, and that John’s idea of them growing old and happy together was impossible. Arthur never loved John, and he never would. It was just simply that, and nothing more. Nothing against John, and nothing against Arthur.

Well, Arthur would leave it at nothing against John. Of course Arthur feels regret, and he’s angry at himself for letting himself fall so deep into that hole, but John deserved better.  _ Deserves _ better. Better than Arthur. Better than Abigail.

Actually, as Arthur thinks about it, Abigail’s a wonderful woman. She’s got a fiery side to her, and she’s got just a perfect amount of bite in her tone. She’s perfect for John. She’d keep him in his place where Arthur never could. Maybe it was the prostitution that lead her there, but Arthur doesn’t much like to think about it. Has never really liked the word, or the idea of it. Whenever they approach him, he tries to avoid and ignore. Luckily, they are usually capable of reading Arthur, unlike Arthur to them, and they leave him alone. They give up their act, and they move to the next.

Arthur wants someone for good. Wants them because they make him feel something for the long-term rather than the short term. Wants them not because of their body, because of his own curiosity, or because it was “something to do”. He wants someone to stick around and make him feel for longer than he did with John. Longer than a few weeks. That fire died fast, and Arthur’s not sure he ever tried to fan the flames at all. He simply sat back and watched the ashes slowly suffocate the light, until it was simply an image of glowing coals.

Maybe he should’ve done something about it.

It’s too late now, he supposes, as he gazes into his own eyes. The reflection is faint, but he can still see the blue of his eyes, enhanced by the blue of the sky on the horizon.

Then he sees John’s face, angry and hurt, looking back at him. He looks away almost immediately, and he finds himself distressing over the ideas festering in his head. The only way he can escape is by sleeping, he supposes, but even then, he doesn’t trust his mind to leave him in peace.

So Arthur reaches into his back and retrieves the journal, flipping through it.

Then he sees the drawing of Aiden, and he drops it back against the floor.

Someone turns around to look, investigating the subtle thump of the journal, and Arthur slowly apologises. He doesn’t want to apologise, but he does, for some reason. It just comes out.

Perhaps that’s what being an adult really is, especially in the time they’re living. Suffering for the longest time, then apologising for a slight inconvenience to someone else.

Oh well.


	7. VII

After returning home, Arthur sits for what seems like days in the empty room, trying to remember what it all looked like. A loss like that was debilitating, and he’s still not exactly sure of what to do.

He knows he’s screwed up. He knows he’s lost his way, and he knows how it happened, but he’s not quite sure how to face it yet. It’s frightening to him.

It’s just something he’s never had to deal with before. He’s always been one for simpler stories, never understanding the more complex ones, so having to figure this one out is incredibly difficult. Maybe if he were smarter and knew how to read, he could’ve recognised what was the right thing to do in the situations he’s been put through. There was a story that sounded familiar to him, specifically the basic plot line, Romeo and Juliet, was it?

Maybe he’s Juliet, and Romeo is the sun, or he’s Aiden and Arthur is the… no, that can’t be right. He’s Romeo and Aiden is the sun? No, Romeo was never homosexual, was he? That seems strictly incorrect, specifically for that time period. Then again, it’s no better now.

It takes a while for Arthur to run through their conversations again before he remembers what Aiden had said. Arthur was the one who proposed the idea, yes, but Aiden had that look on his face when he replied with ‘if you so desire’.

At this thought, Arthur finally stands and looks out the window, noticing how late it has gotten. It’s halfway through the afternoon of the following day, but Arthur has been sitting in that office, wallowing in self-pity.

Then he remembers the ball, and he throws himself towards his bedroom, searching for something nice to wear again. He supposes he can just wear what he wore the last time, but that seems out of place. Unfortunately, after searching for as long as he does, he doesn’t find anything worthwhile.

Tugging on the outfit he’d worn just a few days ago, he rushes out of the house. He doesn’t grab any of his weapons, having hid them under the bed again after returning home. He doesn’t grab his journal, leaving that out on his desk or the floor in his plight. But he doesn’t care, all he’s worried about is getting to the West Grizzlies and meeting Aiden there. He’d promised he’d go.

Arthur rushes down to the train station, wondering if he should take a stage instead, or if that would be too pricey, but it seems the decision is made for him when his name is called and he looks up to see a coach, driver sitting in his seat and looking directly at him.

“May… may I help you?” Arthur pants. “I don’t have much time.”

“I’m here for you, sir,” the driver says. “Hop in.” Arthur furrows his brows and shakes his head. He knows a trap when he sees one. Besides, the man hasn’t mentioned  _ where _ they’re going. “West Grizzlies, is that right?”

“Sure, but I’m not so sure about… well, you know…”

“Mr. O’Malley sent me. Aiden O’Malley.” Arthur looks up again, tilting his head.

“Why did he do that?”

“Said he wanted to make sure you came,” the man shrugs. “Now, I’ve never been late before, and I don’t plan on that changin’ now.” Arthur looks around, taking a breath and nodding. This man should be trustworthy, right?

He climbs into the box, and the reins are snapped down just moments after he settles in the seat.

 

* * *

 

It takes several hours to get there, but Arthur passes out about fifteen minutes in. After not sleeping, and hardly eating anything, he’s got very little energy, and he used it all up while running to the train station. What a stupid plan.

After waking up again, he begins to worry that they won’t make it on time. That they will miss it entirely, and Aiden will not want to see Arthur’s face again after making a fool of him, or something along those lines.

Then again, when he looks outside, he does see the snow commonly found in the mountains. That’s also not to mention that the driver had mentioned not being late, thus leading Arthur to suppose that he’d made it just in the nick of time. That soothes his worry just a little bit. Not much, but a bit. He’ll make it, it’s alright. Besides, if he doesn’t, who will really be upset? Aiden? Hardly. Arthur’s probably only been invited because Aiden made a mistake of mentioning it, and simply had to follow through.

Maybe Arthur shouldn’t’ve come. Seems like it was enough of a misunderstanding as it was, and he didn’t want to be thrust into this kind of situation; still doesn’t want to be any part of it.

Arthur glances around, his brows furrowed as he tries to find exactly where this place is. Aiden hadn’t really given him all that much in terms of information, only pointing him in a general direction and saying “you’ll find it sooner or later, and hopefully, sooner”. Arthur sighs. He wonders if he’ll ever get over the look Aiden gave him, or the touches. They were like no other, like they were of some being which should be nonexistent, yet existed just before Arthur’s eyes.

At last, he sees it through the box’s window, hitting the roof of the cab and announcing that he’s planning on going there. The coach driver apparently doesn’t hear him, though, and continues riding on, so Arthur shouts again.

“I’m supposed to be gettin’ out here, mister!” Arthur barks, sighing when he gets another lack of response. “Stop the coach.”

“I know where we’re goin, don’t worry.” Something about the way the man says this sends a chill up Arthur’s spine, but he sits back and nods. Aiden had sent this coach, Aiden wouldn’t do anything awful to Arthur, would he? Would he?

Coming to a stop around the back of the building, the box shudders and scrapes its wheels across the half-frozen cobblestone. Arthur’s surprised he hasn’t ever seen this place before, having been up here many a time while hunting for that stupid Grizzlies vampire, which Aiden has, no doubt, killed by now. But, Arthur supposes, this is still a good idea. He’ll be able to meet the others who are working in the shadows around him, this way. Besides, he’ll be able to see Aiden again, and maybe this time, Arthur will lose that threatening feeling in his chest. Finally.

The driver shifts the entire box as he pulls himself down, but Arthur doesn’t notice as he digs for his money and tries to figure how much extra he should add for bringing him all the way up into the mountains. The door has been opened for him, but he doesn’t recognise it until he reaches for it and feels nothing but cold air, almost leaning enough to fall out of the box altogether.

Looking up, he clears his throat and holds the money out to the driver, who shakes his head.

“I’ve already received my payment, sir.” Arthur slowly nods, looking away and folding the money back into his pocket before he steps out. The driver reaches for Arthur’s hand with a gloved one, holding it gently and not unlike a woman’s. Arthur takes his hand away after this thought passes his mind and he simply clears his throat, nodding to the man who shuts the door behind Arthur.

“Thanks,” Arthur nods to the driver, who smiles just a bit before hopping back up onto the seat. “I’ll be seein’ you later?”

“Perhaps.” And the man snaps the reins down, riding away. Arthur looks at the back of the building, somehow dressier than the front (or, what little he saw of the front), with all of the candles in the windows. Luckily, the driver had left him rather close, but there’s no way he’ll get to the door without wet shoes, so he tries as best as he can to avoid the snow as he approaches.

Arthur’s about to press his hands up against the doors and push them in when they open by themselves. He steps away and looks as two people pull the doors open, light flooding out and onto Arthur’s clothes. It’s warm inside, likely from all of the candles, but Arthur doesn’t find it near as uncomfortable as he would normally, especially after seeing a man step out with a cushy silver pillow laden with a gilded and sparkling mask.

Arthur reaches for it, picking it up when the man doesn’t turn away. He lifts it to his face and ties the thick ribbon, effectively covering half of his features. Shit, if the mask alone isn’t worth Arthur’s entire existence, he’s sure it’s worth more. He’s careful as he lowers his hands, noticing that the man’s pillow has disappeared, and he is now holding a small tray with a flute of champagne sitting delicately in the centre of it. Arthur looks at him and slowly takes it, wondering if this is really his kind of crowd. If all of them are so rich and Arthur is not, where has he gone wrong? Has he simply been targeting the wrong kinds of bloodsuckers? Has he not been going far enough out of his way to find them?

Wandering into the crowd, Arthur glances around the place. He keeps to himself for the most part, gently nodding to many who turn to look at him as he wades through the lot of them. Among them, he’s searching for one person only, the man with the moustache and brilliantly-trimmed soul patch, but it seems it will take much longer than he had initially hoped it would.

Pushing past a woman, he gently touches her shoulder to ensure she makes room for him with her unreservedly beautiful gown. No reason to go stepping on it.

But she whips around and glares at him through the little eye holes of the mask and Arthur is taken by surprise, stumbling backwards and into someone else. This person decides to shove him in another direction, Arthur floundering for any sense of balance as he crashes into a man with a tray of champagne glasses, intricately stacked. They are rescued from their formation as the tray clatters to the floor beside Arthur and the glass smashes just a few inches away from Arthur’s head. He covers his face, trying to protect what little eyesight he still has left after all these years. A doctor had once told him that he required spectacles, but Arthur never had the time or money.

It takes a few moments for the ballroom to go silent, but Arthur is back on his feet a few seconds afterwards, gazing down at the mess of shattered glass and spilled champagne.

“Shit, I…” Arthur sees several of the patrons frown at the word he’d used, so he clears his throat and takes a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were there, I…” Arthur steps away from the mess, looking around at the eyes staring at him. He feels his entire body stand on-end with all of them, so overwhelming as they gaze directly through him with such a disgust; with such an anger. “Any way I can help clean it up, I…” Arthur looks around, still trying to spot Aiden through the crowd, hoping he will simply appear and whisk Arthur away from this situation.

Several moments after Arthur has spoken, the man having carried the platter whistles through his teeth and calls a few others over, equipped with mops and with a broom. Arthur takes another step back. They’re all still staring at him.

He turns around, rushing off in some sort of direction. Maybe he can find a place to hide away for the evening, and Aiden will have to come find him — that is, if he really cares about Arthur’s presence at all.

Turning a sharp corner, he hears the noise begin to pick up in the room left behind him now, and he turns into the first door he sees. Luckily, it’s a bathroom, and it seems that no one is occupying it.

Shutting the door behind him, he slides until he hits the floor and pushes his face into his hands. Of course, the moment he’s invited to anything classy, anything special, he has to screw it up. It just seems that nothing is going right for him, and hasn’t been for a few days now. What could’ve been the change?

And that’s not to mention the nagging feeling in his mind, constantly pestering him about forgetting something. For the life of him, he can’t remember what he’s forgetting, and thinking back over the previous minutes is a bit of a soft spot for Arthur, so he tries to avoid it. Oh well, whatever it is can wait until Arthur no longer feels like the scum of the earth.

After sitting there for many long minutes, Arthur stands and wanders over to the mirror. It’s off of the wall around the edges, folded in just a bit to create a bit of a design, but Arthur can’t wrap his head around how they hung it on the wall. Surely, a nail is involved, but how is it so flat?

As he stares at this conundrum, he begins to notice how wet his clothes have gotten. He likely smells like champagne from head to toe now, and while Arthur won’t complain about the smell, he will surely complain about the feeling of his shirt slowly suffocating him, so he peels his first layer off and slowly drapes it over the edge of the sink. Lifting a towel from the rack, he dabs it against the fabric of his cheap formal wear, slowly drawing the wetness out.

After a while, his clothes are damp at best, but the towel is just as well, and Arthur figures that it’s the best he can do, so he pulls his shirt back on and begins to button it.

There’s a knock at the door, and immediately, Arthur tenses, looking over to the door, remaining unlocked.

“Occupied,” Arthur chokes out, fumbling with one of his buttons.

“Maybe I should come back later, then?” Arthur hears Aiden’s voice and immediately stiffens. Despite the urge clawing at him to open the door and greet the man, Arthur stays still. He doesn’t want Aiden to see him like this. He’s already rewearing something, and now he’s covered in fancy champagne, which he knows he won’t be able to pay for if Aiden asks.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods a bit to himself, fully aware that Aiden can’t see it. “Maybe you should.” Arthur hears footsteps. Whether they’re approaching or leaving the door, he doesn’t know, but Aiden wouldn’t have called anyone over, so he must have left.

Arthur finally buttons his top button, staring at himself in the mirror. The god-awful fabric is damn near see-through with the liquid still clinging to it, but at the very least, Aiden is gone, and will give him a few minutes, at least.

Then Arthur begins to wonder if he’ll even be able to find Aiden later, or if he’ll want to go searching again. Maybe this was a failure waiting to happen, but maybe it’s not.

So Arthur tugs on his tailcoat and makes for the door, tugging it open and opening his mouth to shout after Aiden, but he jumps when the man is still lingering there by the door, a cigar between his lips.

“Ah, Arthur!” Aiden stands straight, smiling and swiftly swiping the cigar from his mouth, then tossing his arms out to the side. “I was wondering if I’d see you tonight.” Arthur averts his eyes, slowly nodding and letting out a nervous laugh.

“Sure, an’ after everythin’ that just happened in there…” Arthur tips his head to the side a bit, hands wringing slowly behind his back as his eyes lift. They land on the man’s chin at first, then drift up to his golden brown eyes hidden behind his mask. Wait— “The mask!” Arthur shouts, gasping. “Shit, I’m sorry, I must’a left it out there, I didn’t mean to—”

“This mask?” Aiden reaches behind his back and holds it out to Arthur, who purses his lips and slowly nods, his face likely a deep shade of crimson from the embarrassment of the night. Arthur reaches forward and takes it, bringing it up to his face to place it back where it had been earlier. He decompresses after a second, looking up to Aiden for forgiveness. He’s ruined the man’s ball, has wasted countless amounts of money at this point…

“Look, I’m sorry, I…” Arthur scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not used to things like this, I feel like a fool.”

“It happens to the best of us, Arthur,” Aiden nods, taking a slow drag of his cigar as he gazes at Arthur and waits for the man to speak. When he doesn’t, Aiden steps in again. “You still clean up well, for having champagne all over you.” Arthur cringes a bit, and Aiden places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to alleviate some of the embarrassment. “Are you at least enjoying yourself a little?”

“Not really, if I’m honest,” Arthur sighs, his shoulders raising as his hands clasp the outsides of his elbows. “Don’t really want to linger around here much longer, but you invited me.”

“That’s the thing about an invitation, Arthur,” Aiden tips his head a bit towards Arthur. “Attending is optional.”

“I know, but…” Arthur’s words wander off and he frowns.

“But?” Aiden supplies, taking another drag. Arthur shrugs, not sure what to say. “You didn’t want to come, and yet you are here. Why is that, Arthur?”

“I…” Arthur sighs. “I wanted to see you again. ‘Sides, you invited me, an’ I don’t have too many connections, is all…” Aiden smiles, nodding.

“I understand.” Arthur nods as well, looking over Aiden’s shoulder as someone’s shadow passes by the large hallway, reminding him of the ball going on. Aiden turns over that shoulder to look where Arthur was looking, then returns his gaze to the man before him. “Would you like to return with me?”

“I’m sure all of them out there hate me now.” Arthur looks to the side, watching as Aiden reaches up and strokes his thumb across Arthur’s jaw.

“They might, but if I’m with you, they’ll have to put up with you.” Arthur looks at him, searches for any misleading expression in those eyes, but finds nothing. “Comin’?” Arthur takes a moment to respond, looking over himself. His clothes are wrinkled from the way he had lied them over the edge of the sink, but Aiden doesn’t seem to care. He’d lost the mask within five minutes of entering the building, but Aiden still doesn’t seem to care.

“Sure,” Arthur nods, following him out of the hallway and back into the ballroom. Aiden has a small smile on his face, catching a woman walking past with an ashtray and putting the cigar out in it, then setting it on the platter beside it. She smiles and curtseys before meandering off, Arthur watching as she scowls over her shoulder at Arthur.

Aiden must’ve felt something when Arthur had watched her leave, Arthur feeling an arm slide around his waist and keep him close, almost in a lover’s embrace.

“Woah,” Arthur pauses, lifting his arm to look down at Aiden’s, which is holding their sides close to one another. “Aiden?”

“Hush,” Aiden’s voice is low, and Arthur swallows harshly at the tone of it. He’s then pulled along, keeping his eyes down as he passes by a few familiar faces. They glare as well, but with Aiden’s reaction to him simply glancing at a woman as she wandered by, he’s not sure if he should even be looking at them. So he glances over at Aiden, who has gathered that smile on his face again. That captivating smile.

They reach a position in the ballroom under a large crown in the ceiling, however high above their heads. Aiden lets go of Arthur’s waist, turning him gently for them to face one another.

“Care to dance, Arthur?” Aiden asks, and Arthur takes a breath, glancing around at the people, now watching them.

“I…” Arthur mutters. “I never learned how to dance, got two left feet,” he tries to pull his hand away from Aiden’s, hide it in a pocket or something where he can shuffle and shy away from the attention, likely bringing a deep red to his face again.

“Nonsense,” Aiden somehow hooks one hand around Arthur’s shoulder blade and connects the other to Arthur’s. “Put your other hand on my shoulder,” Arthur swallows harshly and slowly does, still glancing around the room at all of the eyes on them. “Hey,” Arthur finally looks up at Aiden. “Don’t look at them.”

“How—”

“Look at me instead, alright? Forget about them,” Aiden shakes his head, leaning in just a bit to get closer to Arthur. “Follow me.”

Arthur is lost as soon as they begin, but he just keeps his eyes on Aiden’s. The man is so captivating. So mysterious and quiet, yet so friendly when he wants to be. Then again, not  _ too _ friendly, seeing as Arthur’s gaze being caught by that woman made him turn all sour like that.

Maybe it was a bout of jealousy. Maybe Aiden really does care about Arthur enough to be jealous. The thought brings a small smile to his face and he looks down at Aiden’s outfit as he’s essentially lead through the air and across the ballroom floor. It’s an eye-catching deep-sea blue, a very large contrast from the silver in his mask. But it fits. It looks amazing, particularly on Aiden.

Arthur looks back up at him, accidentally looking over Aiden’s shoulder at the people, still watching. Now, they have small smiles on their faces. They look happy. They must be focusing on Aiden, now.

“They’re lookin’ at you, now,” Arthur comments, and Aiden simply shakes his head.

“They never stopped lookin’ at you, Arthur.”

“But they’re smilin’.”

“Sure,” Aiden nods, “have you seen yourself?” Suddenly, he feels his weight shift. But somehow, he doesn’t tense up like he would’ve with anyone else. He feels safe as he’s dipped and lifted back into his proper stance, then lead again. This time, he has a bit more confidence as he’s lead in a more intricate pattern of footfalls.

Aiden smiles at Arthur, and Arthur slowly begins to smile back. Maybe this is his kind of crowd.

Not any of the observers, by any means, but Aiden. He’s so confident, yet so understanding of Arthur’s flaws. How could a man improve?

Arthur looks down at Aiden’s chest again before he feels it, the kiss placed so gently on his lips. It forces his entire body to lock up, but Aiden easily works with it and dips Arthur again. Arthur’s arms hook around Aiden’s neck and shoulders, keeping them together. Arthur is the one keeping them pressed together, as far as he can tell, but Aiden is definitely enjoying it as well, from the way Arthur can feel the man’s lips curving into a giddy grin.

After a few moments, they part, and Arthur’s head turns to the side as he sees a large piece of fabric fall from a nearby wall, revealing an equally large mirror, which reflects the entire room. No one is to be seen, aside Arthur, who is still slanted and being held up by Aiden’s invisible arms. He looks down and sees Aiden’s arms there in reality, but looks back to the mirror and sees only himself and the room around him.

Then, of course, he finds his entire body going slack under the feeling of two sharp points puncturing his neck, filling him with an indescribable pain as he finally recognises what drew him to Aiden.


	8. VIII

When Arthur finally swims to consciousness, he finds himself lying in a bed, his entire body reminding him that  _ something _ happened to him, whatever did. His veins feel as if they will tear out of his skin and stain the sheets a deep red, but something in his mind tells him that they won’t.

Every tiny movement sends a sharp pain through his body, but he slowly looks around and notices that this place is far from being any room he recognises. The sheets around him are silky smooth and milky white, making for a predicament when his entire mind shouts at him to get up but his body is just so damn comfortable, and doesn’t.

He’s able to lift his head, letting out a groan of pain as his back cracks once and sends the rest of his spine into a surge of pain. He lies it back down, sighing and trying to figure out whether or not he would be alive right now after being hit like a train as his body feels it was.

A hand moves to rest on his waist and immediately, Arthur snaps up. His muscles and bones cry out in agony, his neck stinging most of all. He’s unable to see who it is, the person lying behind him.

“Who… who’s there…” Arthur says, his voice hoarse. He notices that his mouth is dry and that his tongue is hard to work with as it openly complains about his thirst.

“Dutch,” says a familiar, yet distant voice. “You’re safe, calm down.”

“I don’t know you,” Arthur says, his face depicting that of fear. “Why…”

“Aiden.” Arthur freezes, remembering the voice and putting the face to the name. Why, then, did he say his name was Dutch?

“Aiden?” Arthur asks, wanting so very badly to turn himself over, but fearing that it will be the last time he moves, from the searing still going on in his veins. “Why am I here?” He remembers knocking the platter over, sending all of the drinks to the floor, and he remembers running off, but he doesn’t remember where to. Perhaps this is where he ran off to? “Sorry, I… I don’t remember much of last night.”

“Maybe we should remind you, eh?” Aiden’s touches are gentle, but they help Arthur turn onto his other side and face Aiden. “Good morning, by the way.”

“How long did I sleep?” Arthur asks, looking over the man’s body. His top half is bare at the very least, so Arthur’s eyes are immediately drawn to the skin. “If you know that.”

“Sure,” Aiden moves forward, pulling himself closer without touching Arthur. “A month and seventeen days.”

“A  _ month _ —” Arthur tries to sit up again, wanting to leave and find that Grizzlies vampire. For all he knows, the stupid bloodsucker could’ve been back to his home in just a few days, and could’ve gone rampant inside. He could’ve run away in that time, what could he have done in a  _ month _ ?

“Calm down,” Aiden reaches up and places a soothing hand on Arthur’s shoulder, slowly lying him back down and smiling at him.

“Why did you say your name was Dutch,” Arthur looks away for a moment, then back up at Aiden’s eyes.

“Because that  _ is _ my name, Arthur. Aiden’s an alias.”

“What?” Arthur is completely lost.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Aiden smiles a bit, nodding his head in a slight bow as he gently and slowly takes Arthur’s hand and lifts it to kiss the back of it. “My name is Dutch van der Linde, or as you so keenly love to call me, the vampire of the Grizzlies.” Arthur freezes. He knows that name, knows what kind of things the vampire has done. That can’t be Aiden, can it? He wouldn’t hurt Arthur like that.

“What,” Arthur repeats again, his mouth left open. “No, you’re playin’ a trick on me, Aiden. Tryin’ to make me look a fool.”

“I’m not,” Aiden shakes his head, reaching forward and gently touching at Arthur’s neck. A round of pain runs along his veins, but somehow, not as much as would if Arthur touched it himself. “Who do you think gave you this?” Arthur feels him touch two specific places on his neck, and it all comes rushing back to him.

“You…” Arthur says. “You lied to me.”

“No, no,” Aiden — or, Dutch? — quickly tries to soothe Arthur. “Not lied. I simply misguided you, and got rid of the hunting issue we’ve been having recently.”

“Huntin’ issue?” Dutch’s hand slides along Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur finally notices that he’s almost entirely nude. He doesn’t make any moves to cover himself, seeing as he’s already learned his lesson this morning.

“Sure,” the man nods, looking up at Arthur and smiling a bit. “You were a threat, Arthur, and I took care of that threat.”

“So…” Arthur whispers, looking down at Dutch’s hand as it smooths over his skin. “I’m… a bloodsucker now?” Dutch nods in response, moving closer again. They’re about six inches apart now, and Arthur fears what Dutch will do.

The hand raises along Arthur’s body, and Dutch presents his wrist to Arthur’s mouth.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little thirsty.”

“That’s the feeling,” Dutch nods, moving it just a bit closer to Arthur’s lips. “Eat, you’ll need the energy to finish your change. You were already malnourished, I don’t want that to continue.” Arthur looks up at him and slowly pushes the hand away.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?”

“Kill you?”

“Drain me of my blood, then throw me away? Wouldn’t that’ve been easier?”

“Not entirely,” Dutch is clearly avoiding the question, lifting his wrist back up to Arthur’s mouth. “Eat.”

“I’m not goin’ to do that.”

“Arthur,” Dutch warns, tilting his head a bit in disappointment.

“That’s disgustin’. No.”

“Eat.” Dutch growls, and Arthur freezes for a second, watching as Dutch’s lips curl back in a slight snarl before moving back to their normal places.

“How?” Arthur asks, hesitant.

“Put your lips here,” Dutch moves his wrist and positions it for Arthur. “Close your eyes,” Arthur does as he’s told, despite his discomfort with the idea of drinking another person’s blood. Arthur’s still unsure about all of this. “Think about how hungry you are. Let me see those beauties.”

Arthur shuts his eyes tighter, feeling the skin touching his lips. He does really begin to think about how thirsty he is, how dry his throat is, and how his tongue is continuously sticking to the roof of his mouth. His brows furrow as he thinks about how long he’s taking, but Dutch isn’t hurrying him by any means, and Arthur can guess how difficult it is for a “newborn”, as Dutch had put it, to first drink.

Then, he feels a rush of blood pouring into his mouth, and he makes a small noise of discomfort and surprise. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d opened his mouth, even less that he’d poked through the skin with the teeth he can now feel pushing at the inside of his upper lip.

Arthur, despite his disgust, really begins to notice how delicious the taste is. Maybe it’s because it’s Dutch’s blood, but it’s almost addictingly sweet against his tongue.

He swallows it, feeling the warmth trail along his insides and provide ice for many of the areas in his body. The blood soothes the pain, somehow, but Arthur won’t complain. He’ll really take anything he can get at this point, and that much is extremely obvious.

He feels a vein pop under his teeth and he pulls back immediately, looking up at Dutch.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Arthur watches as Dutch shakes his head, then gently coaxes Arthur’s lips back to his arm.

“Until you’re full,” Dutch looks at Arthur as he thinks about it only for a second, then dives directly back in.

Arthur feels a sense of pride amongst the disgust, knowing that he can hurt someone like this, particularly Dutch, if this even hurts him anymore. Dutch had taught him how to kill a vampire… was this all part of a huge plan, which Arthur was never aware of? Who was in on it?

He tries to ignore it, simply suckling at the skin of the vampire who changed him, who shifted Arthur’s entire reality, and for good.

“Arthur,” Dutch’s voice is like a gorgeous song to Arthur as he feels this warmth gliding over his tongue like this. He’s pulled away only for a second, his eyes opening to see Dutch move closer and press their mouths together. Arthur’s still on a blood high, his teeth dragging sharply across Dutch’s lip and pulling more of the liquid into his mouth from the cut. It’s delicious. “Slow down a bit.”

“Can’t,” Arthur mutters, feeling his teeth retract as he continues to pull the liquid from Dutch.

“Arthur, you’re not hungry anymore.”

“Sure I am,” Dutch pulls him away, looking him in the eyes. He’s absolutely got more energy than he did when he first woke up, and the pain is mostly gone.

“Your fangs have receded, Arthur, you’re not.” Arthur frowns, shaking his head.

“But—”

“No. You keep going, you’ll end up having to throw  _ me _ away. Then, who will be your guide?” Arthur looks up at him and finally nods, sighing.

“They look alright?” Arthur asks, not really sure what to say to the man who he believed to be a human, a gifted hunter like himself.

“They do,” Dutch leans forward again and presses his lips to Arthur’s again. The taste of the blood still lingers, but this time Arthur keeps himself steady and lifts a hand to the side of Dutch’s face. The man tilts his head toward Arthur’s touch, and Arthur’s mind begins to wander away. Is this right? Is it really something he should be doing? Especially with a vampire?

He considers that he is now part of Dutch’s tree. He wouldn’t call it a family tree, really, because that would indirectly make him Dutch’s son, and would put a very large metaphorical wall in front of Dutch, so he doesn’t think on the specifics for very long. But he’s a vampire now, and he can’t do what he used to.

He guesses the whole vampire thing explains the surplus of money, with the capability of disappearing and reappearing somewhere else at will. It also explains the elegance and draw to Dutch, seeing as they are very similar to angels and sirens in that way. They have their very own ability to draw someone near and close their jaw around that someone’s neck as soon as they are near enough, and that used to terrify Arthur. When he was younger, he thought the “courting” phase of a vampire bite would hurt a lot more, or have a stronger effect, but it didn’t. It only left Arthur confused and dazed, and now, here he is, kissing a vampire.

Arthur  _ is  _ a vampire.

Arthur feels Dutch’s hands slowly lifting him, elevating him over Dutch and easily working him into a bestriding position, sat easily in the curve of Dutch’s pelvis to his thighs. Arthur’s breath can be heard as he thinks about the position they’re in and what could follow it. “How many others have been in this bed with you, Dutch?” Arthur asks, quiet and reserved as Dutch places a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead, then pulls away and looks him in the eyes.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious.”

“Two others,” Dutch says, leaning in for another kiss. Arthur takes it, but pulls away only a second or two later, after thinking on what to say.

“What happened to them?” Dutch’s face completely changes, and Arthur thinks about what he’s just said, especially after really only meeting this man a few days ago, knowing him for all of about a day in total; then again, he’s got a reason to ask, what with the looks Dutch has been giving him since those fangs came out.

“I’d rather not talk about this right now,” the man frowns and pulls Arthur into another kiss, Arthur letting it linger on his lips for a bit longer this time. Dutch clearly needs it.

Does he?

Is he only leading Arthur on again?

“Did you change them, too?”

“Arthur,” Dutch’s voice sounds pained, as if he is trying to guilt Arthur out of getting the man to say anything on the subject. But he deserves an answer.

“Did you bite them?” Arthur feels Dutch try to connect their mouths again and pulls back completely, his brows furrowing as he feels an anger inside him suddenly bubbling and boiling in his chest.

“Really, Arthur, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Did you sway them, too? Lie to them until they were just… clay in your hands?”

“I never  _ lied _ , we’ve been over this.”

“Did you wake them up with a drink from your arm, too? How special am I, Dutch? Were they hunters,  _ too _ ?”

Arthur throws his hand down on Dutch’s chest, not hard enough to hurt, but violent enough to mean something for Arthur. It may not mean anything to Dutch, but there’s purpose behind it, and it helps keep Arthur from clocking Dutch in the face. He knows that won’t end well for either of them.

“How many have you had,  _ period, _ Dutch? Am I sloppy seconds, is that all I am? You keepin’ me around to  _ use? _ ”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Answer me!” Arthur howls at him, his shoulders raised as he has such an urge to throw a fist across that gorgeous, lying,  _ cheating _ face. “You gonna use me now? That why you didn’t want to kill me?”

“ _ Arthur! _ ” Dutch shouts, finally catching the man’s attention in his fit of rage. It’s never uncommon with newborns, no, especially with that first meal under their belt. “You need to hunt, son, and I think rather soon.” Arthur’s face changes from one of fury to one of decieved sadness. He still wants to punch Dutch; knock him across the room, and show him that Arthur is not someone to be toyed with, but he’s sure that it’s just an image in his head, one that will never really come true.

“Fine,” Arthur pushes himself off of Dutch, shoving the hands reaching for him, away. “Let’s go.”

“We can’t go now. Not with the sun out, my Beloved,” Arthur whips around and glares at him.

“Don’t even try to use your pet name on me.” Arthur crosses his arms. “There somewhere else I can sleep until we go?” Dutch slowly gets up from the bed, Arthur hearing him let out a sigh.

“I’m sure we can find somewhere, yes,” Dutch takes a long breath and steps up beside Arthur, putting an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur steps away immediately, dropping his arms and walking towards the door. Dutch clears his throat behind Arthur and he turns back, seeing the man standing there with Arthur’s clothes. Unsurprisingly, they aren’t the ones he was wearing that night a month and a half ago, so he’s gone into Arthur’s house again.

Arthur moves past Dutch, taking the clothes and beginning to pull them on.

“Why’d you get so angry at me when I looked at that girl, Dutch?” Arthur asks, and the man looks over, confused.

“When?”

“That night. At the ball.” Dutch goes quiet for a moment, likely remembering it.

“I was being protective of you,” Dutch says after a long moment, Arthur pausing in his movements to give Dutch a disapproving gaze.

“Who said I needed protectin’?”

“A room of vampires, Arthur. They all wanted to be the one to finish you off, but I was the only one who wanted to keep you alive.” Arthur shakes his head. It takes several moments of silence for either of them to talk again, Arthur breaking the silence as he fastens his suspenders to his belt line.

“I would’a preferred dyin’.”

Dutch doesn’t answer, his head dipping down a bit as Arthur passes him and pulls the door open. “I’ll make it up to you, Arthur, I will.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know how yet, Arthur, but I will, alright?” Dutch follows him down the hall, matching pace with him and grabbing his shoulders tight, stopping him. Arthur doesn’t fight to break out of the hold this time, looking into Dutch’s eyes as they look more genuine than they have in Arthur’s entire time knowing him. “I will.”


	9. IX

Arthur is given a room mildly near Dutch’s, and he’s taken notice of their change of scenery pretty quickly. It’s no longer the dance hall they were at, and rather some home-like place out in the woods. He’s glad to have noticed that the snow is not to be seen in this area, after peeking out a window as they walked by, meaning that it will be at least mid-temperature. Not scorching and unruly, and not freezing and uncomfortable.

Dutch points out several rooms as they walk by, but Arthur doesn’t take the first two. He doesn’t want to be too close. If he wanted to be near Dutch, he would’ve stayed in the room with him.

“Here, then.” Dutch speaks with his voice much more subdued now. It’s almost like he’s sad. The thought brings an urge to laugh to Arthur’s mind, but he doesn’t. There’s a limit to how rude he’ll be, especially when Dutch has yet to leave him out in the sun to bake.

“Thanks,” Arthur nods, wandering further into the room and taking it in. The walls are pristine white, the trim a golden colour. The rest of the furniture — including a bed, two dressers, a chair, and a desk — is extremely clean, leaving out the human aspect of anything. He begins to notice that every part of Dutch looks the same. There’s no human nature to any of it. Nothing imperfect, nothing flawed. He’s simply the best a man can be, but he’s not a man. Not human. He’s a monster, and he’s changed Arthur now to be the same.

Dutch stands in the doorway like a sad dog waiting to be allowed in, but Arthur won’t allow him to have that freedom. Not yet. He hasn’t earned it, and Arthur’s not sure he ever will. Maybe when Arthur’s dead and gone, God will be able to forgive him for ruining the life of an innocent man only trying to cleanse the world of His greatest mistake.

“Were you human once?” Arthur asks, skimming his eyes over the books on the shelves. They’re the only sense of colour in this place, the books, along with the paintings, but even those were minimal. This place is boring.

“I was,” Dutch nods, and Arthur looks over his shoulder at the man who is now leaning on the doorframe, having recognised that he had better get comfortable there or stand still while they talk.

Arthur tips a book off of the shelf and looks at the cover. It’s something in a language he doesn’t know, but he recognises a few of the starts and finishes of words. Must be Latin or Spanish, or something like it. “Why won’t you tell me about those two?” Dutch goes quiet for a moment, Arthur setting the book back on the shelf. “I mean, I must have a bit of reason to ask, and for you to tell me. After all, I—”

“I know.” Dutch stops him there, and he nods, glad that he’s finally gotten his point across, as many times as he’s tried. “I haven’t forgiven myself.”

“What, d’you kill ‘em?” He recognises how insensitive he’s being, but again, it’s for a good purpose and has been lead up to by many things. Dutch goes silent for a long time, looking at the floor. It’s long enough that Arthur fully turns around and looks at him for a moment or two, then steps forward. His chest rises and falls slowly as he does, seeing that he’s being extremely difficult to read, in many ways.

“I…” Dutch says, still staring at the floor. His eyebrows furrow and he blinks a few times, Arthur approaching him and coming within a couple of feet. He leans on the wall in front of Dutch.

“What were their names?” Arthur lifts Dutch’s right hand, looking at his rings. He gently turns them on the man’s fingers, watching as the light glints off of them.

“Annabelle,” Dutch says, lowering his eyes to his own rings. He clears his throat a bit. “Molly.” Arthur nods, looking up at Dutch’s eyes as they reflect such a sad emotion through nothing but a blank stare. Vampires can’t really feel, they never have been able to. “I loved…”

“What happened, Dutch?” Arthur asks, whispering now. He sounds as if he cares, yes, but he really only wants information about these two. If they meant as much to him as Arthur does to him. Or… does he care?

Dutch opens his mouth once or twice, trying to explain. Arthur tries to rub the palm of his hand, hoping it would soothe the man, but it seems that it can’t. Not when Dutch is already so unfeeling. “When I was human, I met Annabelle.” Arthur nods and gently pulls him from the doorframe, taking a breath.

This is the wrong thing to do.

He sits Dutch down in the chair, plush as it is, and slowly moves to sit across his lap. Dutch looks to be thankful for the movement, his hand sliding along the lower part of the fabric on Arthur’s pant leg. “She was gorgeous, tell you what,” Dutch smiles just a bit, tilting his head and drawing invisible designs over Arthur’s clothed calf. “Pretty voice, too. Loved to sing.”

“What did she look like?” Arthur asks, leaning into Dutch a bit more and resting his head on the man’s shoulder.

“Dark hair, always in two braids over her shoulders,” Dutch grins a little more as he remembers. “Such a pretty smile.” Arthur looks up at him, letting out a sigh and looking down at his own legs as Dutch moves his hand to Arthur’s knee and runs the side of his thumb over the covered skin.

“And Molly?”

“Fiery redhead. Always had something to say.” Dutch laughs a bit. “Greenest eyes you ever did see.” The man goes quiet again and Arthur begins to wonder what he wants to do. What he’s _supposed_ to do in this kind of situation. Is he supposed to feel bad for Dutch, or should he keep his head for once?

His anger and disgust at Dutch’s mentioning of the other two begins to slip away as soon as he begins to explain what happened. Apparently, Dutch had found Annabelle way before being turned into a vampire, but when he was, he tried to change her too. She was changed and they were happy for a few years until a werewolf came along and took her out of Dutch’s life faster than he ever thought one could.

Apparently, that werewolf still lives to this day.

With Molly, Dutch had tried to change her in almost the same way as with Arthur, except with a different situation. They’d been alone, and she died in the midst of the change. Something about the way her body reacted to the venom, said Dutch. She went out violently, and Dutch had to sit through it and watch, because he wasn’t going to leave her side.

Arthur is on the verge of tears, his eyebrows pulled together tightly, when Dutch looks up at him and gently whispers.

“I didn’t want to have you maimed and killed, Arthur, because I wanted another chance,” Dutch looks away for just a moment before gazing back up into Arthur’s eyes. “You trusted me from the start. I…” he sighs. “I felt something for the first time in centuries. With you.”

“Somethin’ bad?”

“No, not at all.” Dutch shakes his head and leans forward a bit, his hand now at the side seam of Arthur’s pants, gently thumbing at it. “You made me happy, believe it or not. And… that’s already better than Molly.”

Arthur doesn’t know what he’s doing, so far lost in the moment as he pulls himself forward and kisses Dutch. The man seems hesitant, like he’s trying to talk himself out of it, but Arthur’s lips slowly coax him in, and his arms rest loosely around Arthur’s hips.

“Arthur,” Dutch whispers between kisses, Arthur having shifted to face him completely, slowly thumbing at the skin between Dutch’s neck and shoulder. “Slow down a bit, my Beloved.” Arthur doesn’t pause at the name this time, moving forward and glazing his lips over the side of Dutch’s neck. He can see the small, faded marks where he’d been changed, but an urge calls for him to open those scars again and drink.

“I’m here, now,” Arthur whispers, feeling his lips brush against the marks again as he shuts his eyes and grips Dutch’s shoulders. “I’m here to stay.”

“I’m well aware,” Dutch nods, tilting his head a bit. The only person who has ever really had their mouth this close to his neck is long gone now, having run away with his woman after searching for thousands of years. “What are you doing?”

Arthur doesn’t reply, feeling his fangs prod at the inside of his mouth and curling back his lips to reveal them. He takes a breath before leaning into the movement, the points pressing into the skin and drawing a slight groan out of Dutch. He adjusts his hold on Arthur, hands, placed firmly on either side of the man’s hips.

“Arthur,” Dutch inhales sharply, swallowing. He doesn’t move, letting out a hasty breath. Arthur exhales a small groan, his teeth sinking deeper as he feels the man’s blood filling his mouth again. He fervently gulps it down, the warmth soothing his slowly-returning aches again.

Dutch’s hands finally move from Arthur’s shoulders, his head tipped back against the chair as his fingers glide over the man before him. The hands continue to roam until Arthur pulls back, it having been several moments since Arthur had connected his lips to the skin in the first place.

Dutch doesn’t spare a second, leaning forward and connecting their lips before either of them has a chance to say something. Arthur’s hand drags along Dutch’s arm and slides into the man’s curls. He tugs on the dark tresses just slightly, his legs shifting him and pushing him forward a bit. “I… I feel funny,” Arthur looks into Dutch’s eyes, noticing that his vision is wavering in and out of a heavy blur. “Like… like I been drinkin’.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur feels Dutch beginning to tug at his suspenders, the clips snapping undone and allowing Arthur to feel his shirt being pulled out of the back of his pants.

“Why?” Arthur asks, his brows furrowing. Even in his daze, he can recognise the feeling of Dutch’s hands resting on his thighs, but the feeling of them moving upwards is what tugs him so quickly out of the daze. “Hold— hold on…”

“What for?” Dutch asks, sliding them further; faster. Arthur‘s mind jolts to a sudden and complete stop as his hands move for him and he catches Dutch’s.

“I just think we should,” Arthur breathes a bit, his consciousness fading as he feels that overpowering sense of drunkenness set in. “We should hold off a bit… I barely know you.”

“But I know you,” Dutch whispers, and Arthur feels a shiver run along his spine. It stiffens every muscle and all but a few refuse to relax again. “I’ve known you for weeks, Arthur. I know _everything_ there is to know.”

“You…” Arthur’s brows furrow as his mind is shoved under that daze again and he can’t seem to gasp for another breath before he’s pulled under its spell.

He knows he doesn’t sleep immediately, and he feels everything that happens, but he doesn’t feel in control. He’s being manipulated by something else; something stronger is at work in his mind the entire time, and he can’t seem to push past it to put an end to it all.

 

* * *

 

It’s late at night when Arthur first feels a hand on his hip, but he doesn’t pay much mind to it after waking to the mess he did last time.

As a matter of fact, he doesn’t pay anything much mind as he opens his eyes and finds the room to be lit up as if he was lying with a candle burning all night. When he looks around for the source of it, he finds none, only the body of a restful sleeper beside him. They hadn’t done anything, and that much is clear from the presence of clothes on the both of them.

Arthur stares at him for a long minute as he contemplates how quickly he could kill the beast before him.

Then he recalls the things he’d been told by Aiden, who seems like a person long gone by now. He doesn’t associate Dutch with Aiden or Aiden with Dutch, because they are two completely separate people in his mind. They act, speak, walk, react, gesture, differently.

They _are_ different people.

Then he begins to wonder if any of that he was told is true. If the only true way to kill a vampire, specifically one as strong as the Grizzlies Vampire, is with that of a werewolf bite, perhaps Arthur should begin searching. If he can escape, perhaps a doctor has concocted a serum for reparation of the vital organs which are destroyed in the shifting from living, to dead, to something somewhere in-between, or maybe he can rub in John’s face that there was, _indeed,_ a Grizzlies Vampire after all.

John — that’s right.

Arthur pauses and thinks about where the man might be.

After their little tiff, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were to find John knocking at his windows and asking the neighbours and sending letters and trying so desperately to get Arthur’s attention so he can stick out his bottom lip and drag Arthur right back in again. He’s done it before, and he’d likely do it again, if Arthur was still there to persuade.

But now he’s out in the mountains with a man he hardly knows, and he’s become the very thing he sought to kill.

It’s almost poetic.

Arthur’s body moves away from Dutch’s as he stands from the bed and looks around once more, still surprised by the outstanding amount of things he can see in the dark that would usually cause a few trips and hang-ups as he shuffles across the floorboards. He makes sure every movement is close to silent, careful to open the door as slowly as possible and only open it a certain amount before stepping out and shutting it behind him.

The difference in temperature from just the room to the hallway is interesting. For the longest time, Arthur had thought vampires gave off no heat, so why is it that it got so much colder as soon as he stepped out?

It doesn’t matter much as he continues aimlessly down the corridor, simply wanting to get away from Dutch and see what he’s missed over how long he’d been asleep.

As he approaches a window, he wonders if he had ever actually been asleep, or if he’d simply forgotten being awake. Either way, he supposes that the recollection will never be recollected, so the thought slips away just as easily as it had been introduced.

Then he spots the moon.

It’s silent, and yet he believes he can hear a faint song being sung by the silver object in the sky. Perhaps it’s only his mind building the sound, but frankly, as he steps nearer to the glass, he believes it to be beautiful, and in a way, only written for himself.

The trees lining the night sky laden with stars is almost as beautiful as the music itself, resonating along the pine needles and bark. And as wonderful as it is staring through paned glass at the loveliness of it, Arthur finds himself drawn to a door of which he realises he has no clue its origins or its ends. Nevertheless, he pushes onwards.

Again, he is nearly silent as he pulls the wooden barrier aside and steps through the door frame, pressing it back into its place as soon as he has cleared its breadth. It leaves him in a smaller hallway, though this one only has one door to the left and several doors to the right, so he’s lead to believe that this door will grant him access to the outside.

And so it does, as he finds with this comforting silence and grace he’s been gifted by Dutch, a man—  a _fiend_ he hardly knows.

Arthur is greeted by the tremendous night sky to which he would write a thousand letters before receiving a single reply, though the words he scribed would never sour in their delicacy. The song the moon sings is louder now, and he can’t help as he gazes up longingly at her. There’s a connection between them, one that Arthur doesn’t feel he needs to reach his hand out to convey, but it doesn’t feel any less real than one for which he does.

As he steps deeper into the forest, he feels an urge to spread his wings and soar towards her siren’s song, despite knowing the hell which awaits him in her embrace. It’s impractical and unkind of his thoughts to tease him with such a thought, but it settles anyway.

Perhaps, instead, he can wrest himself into high limbs of the trees to reach her, but even as he stands below a mighty pine, he knows that will not be near enough.

By the time Arthur stops wandering, he’s enticed by the recognition of her grace being so high in the sky that he could be showered directly by her light. Her song has not ceased, and it continues to call for Arthur until he hears a rustling to the right; everything goes silent, and his eyes are immediately trained on a bush’s leaves several yards away, which have been jounced by a force Arthur has not yet become aware of.

Arthur’s shoulders rise and fall once as he prepares himself for some sort of bear, when in reality it would only be a rabbit, considering the delay.

He spots a pair of eyes staring intently at him for just a moment, glinting with the moon’s silver shower. They look to be similar to a wolf’s eyes, though the hesitation keeping the beast from advancing is causing Arthur to consider otherwise. When it raises its head, Arthur tilts his head, watching as it does the same.

Is it true that vampires are so in-tune with their surroundings that even wolves practice caution? That the moon sings so wonderfully to ears so far away?

As the beast tilts its head as well, Arthur’s brows furrow.

Its own shoulders rise and fall as it chuffs, lifting a leg to move forward. Arthur doesn’t step back as he knows he would’ve however long ago.

Then its head rises and it looks once more at Arthur before turning itself away and fleeing.

The footsteps behind him are decidedly a man’s, and Arthur’s wonder is muffled by the sound of Dutch’s voice calling him, disappointed; angry.


	10. X

Arthur doesn’t pay Dutch’s words any attention. He supposes they don’t deserve anything like that. He also doesn’t turn to look at Dutch, staring off into the distance and keeping his gaze near where the wolf’s eyes had just been a few moments ago, before Dutch went and scared it off.

“Arthur, I was worried about where you’d gotten off to,” Dutch’s hand touches Arthur’s shoulder, and for some odd reason, Arthur flinches away from it. It’s no small movement, either. Arthur dodges Dutch’s hand like it’s a bullet whizzing into his shoulder and tearing through his muscles, despite it being a simple touch. Because it’s coming from Dutch — from such a  _ freak of nature _ , Arthur avoids it like the plague.

Dutch stops for a moment.

Cold.

Calculating.

Trying to understand precisely why Arthur’s just stepped away from his touch so vigorously.

_ Have I done wrong?  _ Arthur can see flash across his eyes before his brows furrow and he steps forward to meet Arthur’s gaze. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Into me?” Arthur asks, stupid. “I don’t know,” and his eyes have returned to the sky. A cloud looks dangerously close to covering up the gorgeous silver Arthur’s missed since looking away, but everything’s been catching his eye. Everything has a profound density; texture to it, that he hadn’t been able to see before.

“What are you looking at?” Dutch’s chin tilts back as he looks up into the night sky with Arthur, brows furrowed, as Arthur can imagine him doing. Strange, how after this little time, he can imagine the man’s mannerisms already.

“She’s pretty, ain’t she?”

There’s an instant where they don’t speak, but Arthur can almost hear Dutch’s thoughts skittering about in his head like little spiders trying to find their home. “She?”

Arthur only answers with a quiet hum and a nod; perhaps a subtle smile, as well.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Dutch’s chin lowers as he glances over to Arthur, clearly surveying the look on his face. But Arthur can’t explain further. He can’t use such a word as “moon” because such a short word; such a meaningless bit of noise with a bit of a glottal stop right in the middle of it to make it  _ seem _ like it’s a longer word, even though it isn’t and can so simply be explained with the letter “u” in many, many circumstances, especially when being taught to a child who doesn’t know how to read the word “coo” or “moo” or “who”. Such a simple word should never be used to title something so magnificent in the sky. “Do you mean the moon, Arthur?”

“Yes,” he says, although he disagrees with how Dutch put it. Perhaps he likes it better when in Greek. Φεγγάρι is at least a little longer and sounds much prettier than the word “moon”.

“Do you care to move closer?” Dutch suggests, and for the first time tonight, Arthur finally lowers his eyes to Dutch’s.

“I’d love to,” Arthur nods, and Dutch places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. This time, it takes a bit longer to register in Arthur’s mind before he pulls away, and Dutch seems to be a bit happier with his reaction this time around.

“C’mere,” Dutch waves a hand, walking towards the tremendous pine which Arthur had decided would never allow him to reach her, but he supposes now that it would get him closer, so he follows, and watches as Dutch stands beneath the branches, waving for Arthur to step closer. “I’ll need to put my hand on your arm or your shoulder or somewhere, so pick a spot. It’ll only be for a second.” Arthur sighs and lifts Dutch’s hand, placing it on his shoulder. Dutch nods, then looks at Arthur.

The world spins.

Flips upside down, then stretches one way and then the other.

It’s white.

It’s black.

Arthur’s sick.

Arthur’s everything and nothing all at once.

And then he’s standing at the top of the tree, Dutch’s hand on his upper arm to keep him from falling off of the limb he’s standing on. “Careful there.”

Arthur looks around, seeing the ground many, many metres below them. The world feels like it’s spinning still, but it doesn’t look that way. It’s almost as if Arthur got heat stroke in one second, then became completely healthy within the next.

“Put your hand here,” Dutch guides Arthur’s hand to a branch, carefully wrapping his fingers around them before sitting himself down on the limb. Arthur stays standing, still looking around.

Sure enough, she’s still shining brightly above them.

His gorgeous Φεγγάρι.

“Dutch?” Arthur asks after a moment or two, thinking more on the name.

“Yes,” he says, glancing over at Arthur to pay him the attention he is not receiving, and is rather jealous of the moon for taking those eyes away from him.

“Why am I thinkin’ like I am? All fast an’ in a language I don’t understand?” Dutch goes quiet, and finally, Arthur’s eyes land on his again. He looks conflicted, like he’s confused about what Arthur’s said, yet knows too much to be clueless on the subject. Arthur slowly sits, legs hanging over the tree limb. “Why are you makin’ that face, Dutch?”

“I…” Dutch says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I didn’t expect you to be that far along yet.”

“What?”

“Well, as for myself, I can speak far too many languages for my own good, and it seems it  _ came _ with the change, in a way.”

“That makes no sense.”

“In a world where vampires didn’t exist, nor did werewolves or witches or anything of the like, our entire possibility of living wouldn’t make sense,” Dutch says, shaking his head. “It’s all about perspective, Arthur, and you’re only viewing my world from an ant’s. You see possibility, don’t you, son?” Arthur pauses and raises his eyebrows in confusion. “Such a small world you see, and the walls are far away; so blurry to your untrained eyes. All you see; all your world is, is feed and reproduce. But I see the world as an eagle, soaring and surveying.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur nods, then making a face and shaking his head. A belonged silence treads its way between the two of them as Arthur’s eyes train themselves on the silver in the sky. Dutch laughs just a bit, and his eyes fall back to the man sitting beside him. “What?”

“‘I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air’.” Arthur’s brows furrow as he recognises the words, and tilts his head a bit.

“Is that—?”

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula; it is.”

“Why are you quoting him?”

“Perhaps because I feel similarly,” Dutch says, his gaze much further away than to where it seems to be latched, on a tree off in the distance. It looks as if he’s perusing the solar system from inside that mind of his, the way his eyes are so trapped on one singular place in the world. “After all, ‘there is a reason why all things are as they are’.” Arthur simply shakes his head, eyes lingering on Dutch’s face before falling to the ground far, far beneath them. “Alas, Arthur, ‘I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul’.”

“Don’t be a fool, Dutch. Vampires feel nothing of the sort.” Arthur spots Dutch’s head finally moving, signalling his return to this time; this place. “They’re emotionless cadavers roving the Earth until they get staked dead in the heart.”

“And why do you say that?” Dutch moves closer. Arthur feels the branch bow, his hands grasping at the thin wooden structure beneath him, almost as if it would save him from falling from its very self. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Hovering. Cautious.

“The most they feel is lust. Anger, maybe.”

“I do not feel lust, Arthur. Nor do I feel anger. I am hollow. Yet,” his hand finally lowers itself onto Arthur’s shoulder just as Arthur spots a deer skittering across the woodland. Immediately, that dryness in his mouth returns. He’s thirsty, and that’s all he knows as he jolts himself off of the branch, away from Dutch’s loose grip on him, and plummets towards the ground.

It’s in mid-air that Arthur fully realises that he’s done what he has, but before the fear has time to set in, he hits the ground. His knees buckle under the weight of his body, but there is no break. There is no shatter, splinter, sprain, or bruise to be seen. And Arthur stands, smiling a bit to himself before taking off in the direction of that deer.

He doesn’t hear Dutch as his legs force him forwards, all he knows is that he can smell the blood, and the hunger is getting even more unbearable, if that’s even possible.

It’s much later, when the snow has disappeared as he’s descended the mountain, that he catches himself on the trunk of a tree as he spots it nearby, grazing near a river. But then he spots a moose, and immediately, his eyes are trained on it, instead. Blind hunger forces him to surge forward at once, and he rushes at the animal much larger than himself with mouth open and fangs springing forth.

Then, he feels something grip the back of his shirt, and his momentum comes to a complete null. He turns around to see Dutch there, who has his arms crossed as soon as he’s let go of Arthur’s collar.

“What do you want,” Arthur demands through confused fangs, half retracted at this point.

“You ran off.”

“I’m hungry, Dutch, I saw a deer, then a moose, and I—” as Arthur turns to gesture in the direction the moose has disappeared, he spots the light of a fire about twenty yards away. Then a person; a human being, leant over it. Awake. Alive. Breathing.  _ Bleeding. _

“Don’t.” Dutch commands, and Arthur glares at him as that hand returns to grasp protectively at his arm. “We need to start small, Arthur. This man going missing will certainly draw unwanted attention, and that is nothing we need right now.”

“He’ll feed me for weeks. I need something, and you let me chase off that moose without letting me get at it.”

“If you had, you would’ve just as easily revealed us as you feasted on it right in front of him.”

“Then I would’ve done the same to him, would I have not?”

“No, Arthur, you’re being ridiculous.”

“If  _ anyone _ is being ridiculous, it’s you, mister ‘I’ll just go changing everyone else’s life to suit my sick, sadistic whims’. What about my life beforehand? You ever thought about that?”

“And what, Arthur, was so  _ good _ about your life beforehand? You were poor. Out of a job, because nobody believed you. Your lover was becoming distant. You were desperate. You wanted out. I  _ gave _ you that out.” Arthur goes silent as he glares at Dutch, shaking his head.

“You’re fucking twisted, you know that? And I wondered why you lived out here all alone. Maybe those girls didn’t even want to be near you.  _ You’re _ the problem, Dutch van der Linde.”

“Arthur, you’re hungry. Don’t begin fights you’re fully aware you won’t win.” Dutch looks to be reigning himself in as he spits these words at Arthur, his brows furrowed. But as Arthur stands there, he growls his half of the story, because he might as well get everything out now before Dutch knocks him out for another couple of months for talking back. Maybe he’ll teach Arthur manners this time, rather than a random assortment of languages that he doesn’t need to know in the slightest.

“ _ No. _ You’re a sick monstrosity, and you play other people as pawns in your giant game of chess. Am I just a replacement to you? A pawn you send to the other side so you can get your goddamn queen back?”

“You aren’t only—”

“You haven’t been proving it all that well to me— that I'm not just so meaningless to you, and that you'll throw me away just as easily as you dragged me in!” As Arthur barks these words at Dutch, he spots the man making his way across the water to the pair of them. He looks down at Dutch’s arm before tugging his own away, then shoving Dutch back as he rushes at the human and lunges at him, easily catching his neck in between razor blade teeth.


	11. XI

After their experience with the man down the mountain, the sun had risen much faster than they’d expected. Dutch had been the one to pull Arthur away from the man’s mutilated neck, earning a snarl before disappearing.

Arthur is in a daze when it happens, and the limbs around him, when they are, feel inhuman. Out of his peripherals, he spots two wing-like structures expanding and preparing for flight. Almost instantly, the thought of drinking from this animal, whatever it might be, comes to mind.

Then they’re off the ground. Arthur doesn’t believe himself to be afraid of heights, especially after finding out that his legs don’t shatter like glass even from ten yards of falling, but there’s a feeling in his gut that tells him this is wrong. What sort of amalgamation can create such a scent, with wings and human-esque arms, and have appeared of seemingly nothing.

Had Dutch left him to die at the claws of this beast?

Arthur wouldn’t put it beyond him.

Struggling, he’s able to get the limbs around him a bit looser and grasp at them with his freed arms, twisting around in its grasp. In just a moment’s glimpse, he sees bat-like features, but the thought doesn’t recognise in his mind as his fangs grow beyond his lips and he claws at the beast’s nape, tugging himself closer until he’s sinking the sharp white daggers into the pale grey skin.

It admittedly lets out a sound of pain, but that only draws Arthur to plunge the teeth further into the flesh. A deep voice saying his name is what begins to pull him to the surface. His brows come together as he tries to ignore it, but the voice speaks again, and he finally retracts from his meal to look into the beast’s eyes.

Perhaps in his state, he’d forgotten that vampires could shift into these monstrosities, or maybe it was the fact that he’d never seen one before. Nevertheless, he lets go and turns his head to watch the ground and its decor pass by.

And then, a couple of months come and go like nothing. Arthur is watched like a hawk. He is given absolutely no way of escape, and eventually, he figures, Dutch will have to let him free to hunt again, but all he’s got are the walls of books and his own mind, at this point.

Until one morning, which starts with a calm greeting and a book. It’s from there that Arthur believes it went downhill.

“Mornin’,” Dutch wanders by the door of the study, spotting Arthur inside with a book on his lap and a look of interest on his face.

“Why, good morning, Arthur,” he smiles, entering the room. Arthur also believes this to have been his first mistake, as Arthur had been making blank shots at mentioning it, and Dutch has been acting naïve to spare himself from giving Arthur the time of day. Besides, Arthur’s been studying this book for a while now. Learning the technique. Learning the manipulation. “You’re up rather early,”

“I s’pose so,” Arthur says, Dutch nearing and moving clockwise to the back of the chair and placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, which he shakes away after only a moment of it being there. Dutch lets out a sigh.

“When will you let me touch you again, Arthur?”

“You already do, doesn’t matter what I say,” he doesn’t look up from the page.

“ _ Really _ touch you.”

“How?” His nose is still lost in the pages.

“Like a lover would,” Dutch leans over the chair, looking at the side of Arthur’s face as he sits there and continues to read like nothing is there hindering his thought. “Softly. Parading you around the room, and placing my lips against that neck of yours.” Arthur has the gall to laugh, if still quietly, before his expression settles again.

“The last time I let you do anythin’ of the sort, you killed me. Made me into… a beast.” Dutch goes quiet for a moment, standing straight and walking himself back around the way he came, before stopping in the middle of the room.

“You acted as if you were pleased to be with me, why not for eternity?” Dutch has his back to Arthur, speaking to the walls of the room rather than at the other being. Arthur glances up at him now, but he doesn’t move any more than to readjust his legs and settle back into the seat. After a moment of silence, he finally lowers the book and puffs out a breath of air, looking up at Dutch. He’s got that look about him, the one where his shoulders rise and fall not with his breaths, but with his thoughts, and the glimpses of his expression Arthur gets over his shoulder clue him into the lost puppy look he’s pulling.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding, Arthur?” Dutch, in all honesty, sounds just as lost as he looks. He’s got this sad tone about him that makes Arthur want to both scream at him for attempting, while still yearning to pull him close and apologise. But he knows he won’t.

“Why do you want that of me?”

“For the same reason I changed you—”

“Because I’m a replacement.” Arthur sets the book aside, frowning.

“No. I thought you wanted me as I wanted you.” Arthur shakes his head, leaning back in the chair and laughing a little bit to himself. There’s no smile, only furrowed brows and an attempt at bringing just a little bit of light into the situation. He decides that this is the time, if any.

“When will you let me go back to Saint Denis?” He says it quietly, and at first, he wonders if Dutch heard him. Then the man turns around, and he feels as if he’s the size of an ant, just as Dutch had described him months ago.

“What?”

“I want to see people again. See life.”

“You see me almost—”

“Not ‘almost’. Every day. I want to see someone new.”

“Arthur,” Dutch says, an offended tone to his voice. Like a kicked dog. “You can’t mean that. You know you can’t—”

“You stole me from my life, I think I have a right to go back to it, if only for a goddamn day!” Arthur shouts, standing from his chair. Dutch stands his ground, a disappointed look on his face.

“You’re breaking my heart, Arthur.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Arthur gets close, his voice quieter now, jabbing a finger into Dutch’s chest. “You don’t feel a thing. You’re always on about how ‘hollow’ you are. You don’t have a heart to break.”

Dutch looks pathetic from this angle.

His eyebrows are brought together just slightly.

His gaze refuses to meet Arthur’s.

He’s silent.

Arthur steps away and moves towards the doorway.

“Arthur.”

He stops.

It’s quiet.

“If I take you back to Saint Denis, will you let me touch you in that way?” Arthur stops with his hand on the doorframe, turning back to look at Dutch, who is still standing the exact same way Arthur left him.

Arthur approaches again, looking Dutch in the eyes before reaching a hand out.

“You have yourself a deal,” Arthur says, and Dutch slowly wraps his fingers around Arthur’s hand, shaking it once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody participating in July's Camp NaNoWriMo this year? I'd love a bit of friendly competition (;


	12. XII

“Ready?” Arthur’s got a smile on his face for the first time in months, prepared to see his old home again. He wonders if someone else has taken it, or if no one dares enter it, with the state of the locks and the open door, from how Arthur remembers it. If anyone’s in their right mind, they should mind their own business, but even as a man of temptation, he would understand if someone passed by it every day in their routine and decided to have a look inside after the door had been left open for so long.

“Are you really sure you want to do this?” Dutch speaks with such a worried look on his face, that Arthur actually starts to think he can even  _ feel _ the worry he shows.

“Do I want to see my old home again, you mean?”

“Sure, it’s only that I don’t quite understand your motive, Arthur. Why do you want to visit? Is there someone you’d like to see?” Arthur looks at him, pulling his coat over his shoulders to cover his arms and his neck. It’s a nice change of pace from the clothes Dutch had gotten him, figuring that the man should look as vampiric and dark as possible. Unfortunately for Dutch, though, vampiric and dark isn’t quite his style.

“Not someone, Dutch.” He shakes his head. “But I’d love to see my little home again. See what’s become of it. Find out if I can get any of my belongings back.”

“Items are only items, Arthur. I’m sure it isn’t necessary to go all the way back into a town you’ll be recognised for some object you could clearly replace.”

“Would you replace your rings, Dutch?” Arthur asks, turning away again to do another once-over on his shorter hair length and clean-shaven face. Dutch goes quiet, and Arthur nods. “That’s what I thought. Now, let’s get going.”

Even with how long he’s been practicing the relocation on-demand thing, he’s never been able to go over a mile without passing out or completely losing his mind along the way. So he steps close to Dutch, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder and allowing him to lead them back to Saint Denis.

It’s faster than a train, anyway.

Arthur finds himself behind a building when his eyes have stopped spinning — a trait which has yet to disappear, though Dutch swears it will eventually. The lamps around the streets are on, and Arthur feels a wave of nostalgia as he moves towards the street. Dutch catches his shoulder before he steps into the light, though, and Arthur turns around once more to look at him.

“Remember what we spoke about, Arthur. I’ll meet you here,  _ exactly  _ here, before dawn. If I can’t find you—”

“You’ll find me, I recall,” Arthur feels like a child being lectured by an overprotective parent. In a way, he supposes Dutch is, but the thought, considering that he will soon be doing things with Arthur that are far from paternal, is a sour one to keep for a long period of time.

“I’ll see you soon,” Dutch nods to Arthur, who does the same and turns towards the street again.

It’s almost liberating to have Dutch away from him for once, despite the worry that the man is still watching Arthur from the shadows and will remain there until dawn.

He takes a breath and sighs, a small smile passing onto his lips as he turns and walks down the street, his mind on his home and his feet following his thoughts.

It only takes a few minutes for him to arrive, staring at his door.

It’s shut; that’s nice.

Taking a breath, he moves up the couple of steps and knocks against the wood a few times, not receiving an answer. With another knock, louder, he sighs and glances at the planter box just to his right. Could it be…

Reaching into the soil, much too dry by now and holding dead plants, he shuffles the dirt around a bit before tugging out a small key. Grinning at the fact that no one’s stolen the key up until now, he brushes it off and slides it into the lock, the tumblers clacking familiarly as he twists it and finally hears it sound out with memory after memory of coming home with new evidence; new leads; new people to investigate.

He wonders if this is wrong.

What if there’s another family residing here, now?

Surely, they would’ve decorated the exterior, if there was, right?

Will Arthur find himself in a cell within the night?

It’s the idea and the thrill that forces Arthur to push the door open, relieved when he finds no new furniture or decor. It’s cold, and quiet, and dark, and Arthur is overjoyed.

Shutting the door behind him, he finds that the other four locks are just as busted as he left them, but for once, he cares more about the rest of his house than he does about being barged in on.

His footsteps are light as he moves across the floorboards, spotting the kitchen and everything in the same place. It’s like the only thing anyone did was shut the door. Everyone forgot about him. Ignored the possibility that he may be dying in the mountains, because he was foolish enough to go falling right into the hands of the worst vampire he’s ever encountered in his history of hunting.

There’s an unlit lantern on the counter, and luckily enough, Arthur finds a pack of matches in his coat. Pulling back the little glass door, he strikes a match against his boot and lights the candle wick, snuffing out the match and shutting the door to the lantern.

The bedroom is empty and dark, but almost immediately, Arthur moves towards the bed and sets the lantern down as he kneels, pulling the wooden case out from under it.

The lid clunks against the wood of the bed frame as he props it up, looking through everything. It’s all still there.

Four months, maybe even more.

All of his things are still here.

Shouldn’t he be happy? He should be glad that no one has come to steal his things.

But he’s not.

All he feels is sadness, and an aching emptiness in his chest when he realises that nothing has been changed. Nothing at all.

No one has  _ cared _ to check in on him, because all he ever does is push away from people. He’s unapproachable, as he’s been told on many previous occasions. He’s got this look about him that always tells those around him that he doesn’t want to speak to them, no matter how much they want to speak to him.

He’s been gone for  _ four months _ .

Not a single letter by the door.

Not a person to recognise him.

Arthur kneels on the floor and stares at all of his weapons, all in the same condition as before. He shifts his position to a sit after a while, still staring into the box he almost wishes was empty, because then, maybe he’d feel a little better. But he’s alone.

So alone.

And all he feels is sorry for himself.

Did he ask for this?

Somehow, did he send a sign to the heavens that he wanted a new start? To simply disappear?

If he did, this isn’t what it was he wished for.

Arthur hangs his head, feet moving in a bit more for his arms to rest loosely on his knees as he feels his shoulders begin to shake.

The only person to want him alive now is the one who killed him. And all he wants is a replacement for the two brides he killed.

An eternal bond, that Arthur realises he will never be able to escape.

Arthur’s hands come together, fingers crossing over one another as he presses them against the back of his head, teeth grit against one another.

“Arthur?”

His entire being jolts into reaction, looking up to find the source of the vocalisation. There, in the flickering light cast by the lantern, stands John in the doorway, a confused look on his face.

“Arthur, is that you?” Arthur freezes. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know whether to lie or not, because John always makes him feel this way.  _ Made _ him feel this way.

“John?”

“Jesus Christ, Arthur Morgan!” John lurches forward, dropping to his knees and tugging Arthur into a tight embrace. Arthur remembers it being just a little warmer, but perhaps, with his shift, his entire state of mind and matter has been shifted as well.

“I—”

“Shove it, Morgan. Just, give me a moment’s peace.” Arthur goes quiet, worried that John will know. That John  _ does _ know, and if he doesn’t, he’ll put a damn good effort towards finding out.

Funny how, even after all of their silence over the past months, John only wants his silence now.

Then John pulls away and looks him in the eyes, a completely serious tone to his voice, and a matching expression.

“Now, where the  _ hell _ have you been?”


	13. XIII

“So you thought it was smart to just up an’ run off after that?” John presses, elbows leant on the table as he speaks to Arthur over their meal. Arthur has only been picking at the food on his plate since they arrived at the saloon, though he sees the look in John’s eyes and knows he’ll have to eat something soon before John mentions what he clearly knows is wrong.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, looking out at the few patrons lingering within the saloon. “Like I said, I found a clue an’ just went with it.”

“You’re a goddamn bloodhound,” John huffs, sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. Arthur shrugs, not really sure what to say. He doesn’t want to get too passionately into any sort of conversation, because he knows he’ll slip and mention something about— “So how’s Aiden?” John motions at Arthur with the prongs of his fork, leaning back over the table again.

“A-Aiden?” Arthur finds himself stammering, and immediately regrets opening his mouth to respond in the first place.

“You know. Vampire hunter. The one you were sweet on.”

“Right,” Arthur says, trying to regain the ground which had been stolen from him by his own deceitful voice. “Haven’t seen him in a while, actually. Kinda saw him once and that was that.”

“Really.” John nods, laughing a bit to himself. “Figured it would go a little further than that.”

“Nope,” Arthur says, and the conversation lulls to quietness. Then John sets his fork down and looks at Arthur.

“Eat something.” Arthur looks up at him, furrowing then raising his eyebrows.

“I have been eating.”

“Bullshit. Pick up a piece of that and eat it.”

“I’m not all that hungry.”

“You’re basically see-through, you’re so pale and skinny. I used to be able to grab your cheek,” he moves to make an example, but he barely pinches anything. “Now all there is, is bone.”

“Decided to lose a little weight,” Arthur shakes his head and pulls back a bit to dispel John’s hand, and it moves, but John still leans close.

“Pick up a piece and  _ eat it. _ ” Arthur looks at him before pulling a smug face.

“Or you’ll what? Force it down my throat?”

“Oh, I’ll force something down your—”

“Aw, shut up, Marston.” Arthur picks up his fork and gets a reasonably sized piece of meat on it, looking at it.

Dutch had never told him if it was alright to eat meat, or to eat anything other than blood. He supposes he’s read somewhere that it’s acceptable to eat other things, but the only thing he’d gain any energy from would be blood. So it should be alright, right?

He puts it in his mouth. Chews.

It’s not bad.

He swallows.

“Happy?” John looks to be satisfied as he sits straight again and shakes his head, laughing.

“I ain’t been happy in years, Morgan, you should know that.” Arthur’s eyes lower to the food again as he slowly nods, considering how lost in this conversation he is. He’s barely said more than a short sentence at a time during this whole impromptu ‘get together’ with his old best friend. He looks up after a minute or so to see John looking off to the side, clearly not knowing what to say either, especially when Arthur’s been deflecting all of his attempts so far.

“So… you and Miss Roberts married yet?”

“Arthur, you know she told you that you could call her by her first name. And no, I don’t think I’m really made to be with her.”

“Because she’s too bossy?” Arthur teases, a small grin coming to his face. John looks happier when Arthur starts to show a bit of actual emotion.

“It ain’t ‘cause she’s bossy, Arthur. She’s just… you know.” John raises his eyebrows as his eyes dart off to the side again, then back to Arthur. Arthur glances in their direction, finding nothing worth looking at.

“‘Fraid I don’t.”

“She’s…” John sets his fork down and gestures an hourglass shape into the air with his hands. Arthur understands now what he’s trying to say, but he furrows his brows and stares at it as if he’s still lost.

“She’s what, John?”

“She’s a  _ woman _ , Arthur.” Arthur looks at John and cracks up just a bit before shaking his head.

“You are the strangest man I think I’ll ever have the misfortune of meeting.”

“Ditto.”

It’s a while later, after several more acceptable conversations, that they finally stand and leave the saloon. John’s had a bit to drink, but it’s not nearly enough to be considered anything more than tipsy. So they walk along the street, Arthur with his thumbs hooked over his belt and John with his hand on Arthur’s shoulder as the former retells a night with a woman he’d met once and never saw again. Something about his description was familiar, but with the thoughts of the time running through his head, Arthur hadn’t been paying much attention.

When they reach Arthur’s door, Arthur unlocks it and pushes his way in, followed closely by John, who is carrying their conversation on his shoulders as Arthur’s mind drifts to everything else at once.

John’s hand is touching the back of his own.

John turns him around.

Looks into his eyes.

Pulls him close.

Kisses him.

And Arthur, after all the time of being without something like this; restraining himself from giving into Dutch’s cruel wishes, kisses back. Pulls John in. Feels the warmth of a body in front of him; against him.

He knows it’s not Dutch.

That’s what draws him in.

This isn’t forced.

This isn’t part of an agreement.

This is  _ passion  _ in its truest form.

“Arthur,” John mutters, breathing out heavily as he feels Arthur’s hands on his waist and traversing lower. “I missed you, so much.”

Is this right?

“I missed you, too,” Arthur whispers between John’s lips, feeling the man shiver under his fingers as they skillfully undo his suspenders and slide under that shirt. John’s gotten skinnier, but when Arthur begins to massage the skin, he finds that it’s not for a lack of eating, it’s rather for an increase in muscle. He grins. “This for me?”

“Sure is,” John grins right back, their gazes tangling. “Figured I’d make myself more presentable for when you got back.”

“You did one hell of a job,” Arthur lowers his face to be level with John’s neck, placing a kiss there before opening his mouth and beginning to suck at the skin.

An otherworldly rage sets in with the following moments, causing Arthur’s fingers to tense and his teeth to stop in their movements.

He’s hungry.

So, so hungry.

And John’s right here, willing. Surely he wouldn’t mind…

Arthur snaps out of it, but the adrenaline from it all doesn’t fade as quickly as the initial anger, so Arthur tightens his grasp on John’s hips before lifting him off of the ground and pushing him up against a wall . John laughs quietly at the lack of effort on Arthur’s face, pulling Arthur’s lips back up to his own. “Seems you did some work, too.”

“Just a little,” Arthur says, trying to keep that adrenaline from escalating too far again. Nevertheless, he drops John back to his feet, leaving his hands on those sides of his as he presses in for another kiss. There’s no dominance between them at this point, but Arthur knows he’ll take the chance John has, and John is more than willing to offer it.

“As much as I love bein’ pushed against the wall, Artie,” John is able to cup Arthur’s cheeks and pull their faces apart, eyes meeting. “I think we should move to someplace… softer.” Arthur grins a bit, nodding. He steps away from John, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll meet you there in a minute,” Arthur sends a wink John’s way and gives him a little nudge towards the bedroom door. John happily obliges, moving into the room as Arthur stands to make sure he’s gone. Then, he steps into the washroom, shutting and locking the door behind himself.

It comes as one hell of a surprise to him as he looks into the mirror and finds nothing. It’s almost as if he’d forgotten what a mirror was when he stepped into Dutch’s life, or even Aiden’s. The last time he’d seen himself in one was when he was being turned, and even that memory has a few fuzzy edges here and there.

He realises that he has no idea what he looks like.

He  _ hasn’t _ known for months.

Nonetheless, he takes a breath and looks down at his hands, then removes his coat, lying it over the basin. The clasps on his suspenders come next, followed by his shirt. He unbuttons his union suit a bit, then his boots come last, carried with the rest of the clothing as he piles and drapes them over his arm.

Stepping out of the washroom, he moves to the bedroom doorway and finds John stark naked, holding something behind his back. Arthur grins. “Haven’t seen you like this in a long time.”

“You haven’t asked.”

“S’pose not,” Arthur lies his clothes over a chair before moving towards the bed, reaching out to touch John’s chin. “What’ve you got?”

“Guess you’ll just have to find out,” John teases, pushing himself back further on the bed. Arthur follows, knees pressing into the mattress before his palms do, then slowly crawls after him, like a wolf hunting its prey. “God  _ damn _ , Arthur. I love when you give me that look.” Arthur continues to advance as John’s back hits the headboard, their lips meeting before anything else.

“You like feelin’ hunted, Marston?” Arthur whispers between John’s lips, grinning. “I’d be more than willin’ to hang you up to dry.”

“Temptin’ me, Morgan? So early in the night?” John is able to slide out from between Arthur’s legs and press Arthur into the mattress with his own weight, watching as the man looks up at him with a strong mix of confusion and lust in his eyes.

“An’ you ain’t temptin’  _ me _ with what’s behind your back?”

“Nope, just baitin’,” John reveals it, and Arthur’s eyes go wide as the point of a wooden stake presses into his skin just below his sternum. He freezes.

“John…”

“You think you’re so smart.” Arthur stares at John’s eyes, then lowers his gaze to the palm braced against the flat end of the stake. Ready to strike.

“S… smart,” Arthur repeats, trying not to let the fear show, but obviously not doing a very good job of it.

“Pickin’ a fight with me, runnin’ off to visit Aiden O’Malley, then disappearin’ for four months. Oh, and  _ here’s where it gets good _ ,” John leans closer, brows furrowed. “Lyin’ to me the night you get back.”

“How’d—”

“Oh, shut  _ up _ , Arthur. I don’t want this to last any longer than you do. Your eyes are a completely different colour. You think I wouldn’t notice that? Or the pale skin. The lack of visible muscle, yet you can  _ so easily  _ lift me off the ground.” Arthur’s eyes continue to drift between the stake and John’s eyes as he speaks.

“Are you gonna kill me, John?”

“You tell me. Should I kill you, Arthur? Were you goin’ to kill me?”

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you the truth, Marston. You… you an’ I both know that.”

“Your Pa really raised you smart, didn’t he?”

“He certainly ain’t raised me smart, but he ain’t raised me dumb, neither. Are you gonna kill me or not, Marston?”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on it, but since you’re so insistent on—”

“Get it over with then!” Arthur shoves himself into a sit, John’s eyes going wide but closing a bit more as he realises he’s revealed the emotion. “Come on! Put the stake in my chest! Watch me turn to dust!”

John doesn’t reply, simply furrowing his brows and pressing the sharp end further. Arthur grabs John’s wrist.

“You an’ I both know that you are so goddamn lost that you’ll hate yourself either way you go. So you might as well keep me around, because if you kill me, you’ll have hell to pay, and it comes in a damn pretty package.”

John is the one frozen now, lips parted and moving slightly as he tries to form sentences in his mind but is unable to force them into reality. Arthur wrenches John’s hand away from his own chest, then snags the wooden object from him and tosses it to the floor.

“At least kill me in the morning. Hang me out to dry so everyone can watch as the sun rises and  _ you’re _ the one he’s after.”

“He…”

“Give me a good time before I go. After all, I don’t know where I’m goin’ after this, but you’ll be meetin’ me there soon.”

“…Alright.”


	14. XIV

“Jesus, Arthur, is it just me, or did you get—” John takes a sharp breath, reaching for Arthur’s hand as John’s tensed muscles attempt to relax, if only a little. “—bigger, holy  _ shit _ .” Arthur chuckles a bit, leaning forward slowly to press a kiss against John’s lips. John arches as he does, but when Arthur pauses to let him settle, he lets out another heavy breath.

“Maybe we need to take another crack at preparin’ you,” Arthur suggests, looking into John’s eyes as they open.

“No, I can… I can take it, I’ve taken it before. Come on.”

“You’re ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Are you—”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,  _ yes _ !” Arthur lets out another laugh, pushing himself up to the full length of his arms as he slowly retracts his hips and pushes them forward again. John breathes with the movement, almost as if the air is being forced out of him. John groans Arthur’s name, brows knitted together as his back lifts off of the mattress again.

Arthur repeats the movement, his hands on John’s hips. He’s not quite sure where his mind is, but it’s definitely not here.

Maybe it’s with the moon again; his gorgeous Φεγγάρι.

Not even the gasps and muffled sounds of pleasure-pain are enough to bring him down from the clouds on which he’s wandering, searching for what he’s not sure he’s looking for.

What finally does, if moments later, are the lips against his own, the arms around his neck and the fingers attempting to claw down his back. John lets out a hiss and Arthur slows his hips for a moment, watching as the man’s head falls back against the mattress. “You’re normally,” John takes a breath before gathering the energy to lift his head and look Arthur in the eyes, “more vocal than this.”

“Sorry, something’s got my mind, I guess,” Arthur shakes his head, lowering his gaze and shifting his arms on the bed, along with his legs to press in harder and stronger. John puffs out a breath and drops his upper half back down, losing that energy.

“Then get it out. I’m right here,” John says, his eyes half closed as his arm snakes down to work himself up to climax with Arthur’s thrusts. “Let it out on me.”

“No, I ain’t gonna do that,” Arthur shakes his head, looking up to John’s face despite the man’s eyes being closed.

“What’re you feelin’, Arthur?” Arthur doesn’t answer, focusing on the movement of his hips rather than the emotion he’s feeling. He knows he doesn’t want to feel it, whatever it is, but he’s unable to pin it down as a specific emotion.

He doesn’t want to return to Dutch, yet there’s a strong connection; a bond drawn between them that constantly beckons him back. Reminds him that in the morning, before the sun rises, he’ll have to return and see that face as it kisses him and those hands touch him all over. As pretty as Dutch is and as nice as that sounds, Arthur’s afraid. He’s always been afraid of commitment, of saying the wrong thing when the right thing is the only thing he can say. So with all of this vampire business having fallen upon him, without his utmost acceptance of it, can anyone really blame him for being uncomfortable? Especially when he’d found out that a man he’d been admiring was a complete lie. That man didn’t exist. That man was as much of a character as Dracula, and Arthur had been stupid enough to fall for it.

Arthur’s stupid.

It’s all Arthur’s fault this happened; he shouldn’t be blaming it on anyone other than himself.

Though, if John hadn’t mentioned the name in the first place…

“Arthur?”

“Anger.”

“That’s what you’re feelin’?” John is able to look up at Arthur again, though his eyes close and drift off every now and again with the sensation between his legs.

“Yes.”

“Then,” John lies back again, this time with some semblance of control over himself, and moves his vacant hand to Arthur’s wrist, coaxing it towards his throat. Arthur tenses. “Arthur, c’mon.”

“I’m not so sure…” His hips falter.

“No, keep— keep goin’,” his hand lowers to Arthur’s hips, pulling them in once before Arthur pushes himself back into the pace.

He can’t do this.

What if he loses himself?

The hand lifts back to Arthur’s wrist, which has pushed itself back into the mattress by John’s head for leverage. “I’m askin’ you to do this,” John says, swallowing his words after they come out, feeling tension in Arthur’s muscles. “You know you want to.”

“I don’t think…”

“Arthur,” John says, tugging at the hand, then lifting it to his throat when it’s finally off of the bed. “Come on.”

Arthur wonders how red he is.

How embarrassing.

As much as he’d love to, he can’t.

He can’t let himself fall into that trap.

He  _ won’t _ .

He won’t kill John.

“ _ Take it out on me. _ ”

And Arthur’s gone.

There’s no physical tell-tale sign of a change like with Dutch and his bat form, or blackening eyes, but his expression changes.

That’s the only sign.

His brows knit together. His hips slow, readjust, then shove in harder; faster.

The thoughts in his mind begin to quicken, then steadily climb in pace as he presses down on John’s throat. The man lets out beautiful, broken, breathless moans of pleasure, Arthur silenced as his mind focuses on treating the meal before it’s killed.

John’s face turns red in the dim light, but Arthur doesn’t care. The amalgamation in his mind doesn’t care for a mortal, even if it happens to be one of Arthur’s closest childhood friends.

If one is to be immortal, they are to learn not to draw connections with those who live in snapshots.

Arthur doesn’t need ties to the human world, and neither does the beast forcing his hand down further, cutting off all possible breathing and causing John to choke. John’s hand grips at Arthur’s wrist.

He doesn’t bow.

John’s eyes, half-lidded and glassy, meet his own.

John is unfamiliar when Arthur’s in this state.

The hand hits Arthur’s wrist.

Does it again, weaker.

Arthur looks up as he feels a breeze on his shoulder, teeth bared slightly.

He sees Dutch.

Sleek black curls, rings of gold, and eyes of steel.

Arthur’s hand suddenly comes loose, for fear of Dutch nearing. The man had been standing in the corner; in the shadows. How long had he been there?

John’s face comes into view, the sound of his sputtering and coughing returning to his senses.

Arthur lifts his eyes again, finding nothing but the shadows in the corner of the room.

“John,” Arthur says, reaching down to touch him, but his hand is smacked away. John curls away from him, shaking his head and coughing again into the crook of an elbow. “I…”

“Save it.”


	15. XV

The bed is cold and lonely when Arthur wakes up, the sun drifting in through the window nearing his wrist. After a moment, he realises the danger and pulls the limb away, moving towards the other side of the mattress.

After lying there for a moment with his eyes open, glancing around, Arthur hears the clinking of china outside of the room. His thoughts come to a stilled silence and he continues to listen, but nothing else comes. Perhaps it was John making a cup of coffee for himself? After the night before, it would be expected of him to make himself at home. After all, Arthur tried to strangle him to death.

He pushes himself upright and feels as the cold air of the room reaches his skin when the covers fall off. It draws a sigh, but he follows through with finding his clothes again, lying them out on the bed before only slipping on his union suit, figuring that anything else being put on wouldn’t really matter. Before he places his hand on the knob to enter the hallway, though, he hears someone’s voice. It’s female, and sounds nothing like John, but she’s speaking to him.

He takes a step back and gazes at the pile of clothing still lying on the bed, then moves towards them and dresses himself the rest of the way. As he’s donning his jacket, he pushes out of the room and forces a yawn, despite his body not needing the air to his brain anymore.

“And, because of that, I think he— Arthur, you’re awake.” Abigail is sitting at the dining room table with John, both of them holding reused food cans, likely filled with coffee, between their hands. Arthur pauses, wondering if they’re both caught red-handed, especially with the fact that Abigail, as Arthur had presumed, didn’t know a thing about whatever was happening between him and John. Had that also changed while he was away?

“Miss,” Arthur nods, moving towards the table to sit himself down.

“You can call me by my name. We both know you ain’t nice enough to keep callin’ me Miss.”

“My apologies, then,” Arthur smiles a bit, then looks to John, who is sitting back in his chair, quiet and sipping at his can. Immediately, the guilt of the night slips back to Arthur. “Look, John, about last night—”

“Doesn’t matter,” John cuts him off, shaking his head and continuing to avoid Arthur’s gaze. “I’ll get past it.” Arthur looks at him for a moment afterwards, not hearing Abigail comment despite Arthur expecting her to.

“You always do, I s’pose,” Arthur sounds defeated, like he’s forgotten how to speak to people. Like he’s been locked away for months without much more than a word of communication per day, and it was usually something hurtful; something to make Dutch feel the dread Arthur feels, though both of them are aware that Dutch doesn’t feel anything in that heart of coal.

Dutch’s heart is constantly burning with passion and anger, but never anything more.

As he thinks more on the subject, his eyes drift slowly to the window behind John, and even through the curtains, Arthur spots the sunlight on everything in sight. “Shit.”

Arthur shoves himself from the seat, almost knocking the chair back as it scrapes across the floorboards, but the sound doesn’t stop him from rushing towards the window and pulling back the curtains.

“Shit, shit!” Arthur barks, throwing the curtains messily closed again. “Damn it; Morgan, you moron!”

“What, Arthur? What’s the matter?” Abigail is the first to ask, pushing herself from her chair to approach the window as well, and as Arthur looks back to John, he finally sees those eyes on him.

“I was supposed to meet someone before dawn, and it’s morning already, how didn’t I…”

“You’re a bit slow this morning,” John comments, and Arthur glares at him.

“First thing you really say to me and it’s gotta be like that. ‘Course it does.” Arthur throws his arms into the air, moving towards what could be considered a sofa, but is more or less a bunch of hides stitched together with an inch of down between them.

“What is the matter with you, Arthur? Can’t you meet him— or, well, I guess her— a bit later? Send a letter, or go an’ find ‘em to tell ‘em you slept in.”

“No, it ain’t that simple, Abigail, I can’t just go out there!”

“And why can’t you?”

“Because I—!” Arthur goes silent, his mouth wide open as his eyes spell ‘distress’ and his words spell ‘lies’. “I…”

“Arthur’s gotten himself into a bit of an issue, Abby,” John has the gall to say, and Arthur’s eyes land on him. Him and his scarred face, which Arthur is starting to wish he’d had the chance to fillet for himself. “Our friend, here, is a bloodsucker.” John stands, walking over to Arthur and looking him up and down with such disinterest that Arthur wonders if John had been acting the  _ whole _ time last night.

“You’re kiddin’ me,” she shakes her head, laughing a bit.

“Not at all,” John grins, and Arthur narrows his eyes.

“You shut your mouth. I don’t need anyone else on my hide about everythin’ I didn’t see,” Arthur snaps.

“You’re serious,” Abigail looks between the two of them, head tilting a little bit as she looks Arthur over. “I might not be smart, but I can tell a lie when I hear one, and this certainly sounds—”

“He’s tellin’ the truth,” Arthur admits, quiet. She stops talking, and John looks at him with his eyebrows raised. “I was stupid. Let my guard up for one second, and…” he fists his hands at his sides. “He told me to meet him before dawn.”

“Who?”

“The bastard that took my life from me. Promised me that I could come back here for a day, if I just meet him… god damn it.” Arthur throws a hand through his hair, brows furrowing as he tries to figure out exactly how he wants to go about this. “I need to get back there.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Arthur shakes his head. At the time, he hadn’t thought about the possibility of himself staying overnight, or over the time he was allowed.

“You shouldn’t go back to him,” John says, and Arthur turns to look at him, not with an expression of anger or anything like it, but distress; sadness; fear. “You can’t.” John’s eyes look a little softer as they gaze at Arthur, almost as if he suddenly cares for Arthur.

“And why can’t I?” Arthur snaps, despite the tone being much angrier than John’s had been. As a matter of fact, John had almost sounded tender; caring, as well.

“You heard of what he’s done to his wives?” John looks at Arthur like he’s crazy as Arthur shakes his head. “You never read about that? All the things he did to them, and that was never mentioned once in the books you poured over for years?”

“The Grizzlies Vampire?” Abigail queries to no one other than herself, shaking her head. “He was ruthless.” Even  _ she _ knows, and Arthur’s been left completely unaware. How much else hadn’t he known about Dutch, or about Aiden, at the time? What other horrible things has he done— excluding killing many, many innocent folks?

“Arthur. You’re kiddin’ me.” John sets his half-empty can on the table and moves towards Arthur’s study, opening the door. As Arthur follows him, he begins to wonder what John’s doing. The last time he was here, his study was torn apart by none other than Dutch himself, as Arthur presumes. What could he possibly be getting at?

Stepping through the door frame, he feels a sense of remorse. Or is it guilt? Sadness? Anger?

All of his things are placed specifically where they were, in perfect condition.

Arthur’s jaw drops, his eyes scanning the small room. He can barely remember where he put everything, and John’s beelined towards a shelf, skimming the spines of book after book before tugging one out.

“John,” Arthur says, and the man glances up at him. “Who… when did all of this get put back together?”

“What do you mean?”

“This… this room was in shambles when I was here months ago, did you fix it?”

“I found it this way,” John eyes the book in his hands as he flips through it, skimming the pages as he goes.

“How long ago?”

“Couple months, maybe.”

Had Dutch been sneaking out for his own purposes, and Arthur hadn’t noticed? Had been too angry; too cross to notice the lack of his presence?

Had Dutch known Arthur would ask to return?

“Oh,” is all Arthur says before looking at the book in John’s hands and waiting for him to explain what it is he’s searching so passionately for.

John stops after a moment, brows furrowing at the pages flipping back and forth, bowing to his fingers. He looks to be getting increasingly angrier with every turn of the same page, front to back, front to back. “Arthur. Where are these three pages?”

“What?”

“Did you tear these pages out?”

“I’d be lyin’ if I said I did, Marston, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Arthur,” John grumbles, pushing past him to walk back towards the dining area, where Abigail is still idly sipping at her coffee. Arthur trails a ways behind John. “Did you tear pages out of this book?” She looks up at him, then at the book, and shakes her head.

“Never seen it before.”

“Not even when you showed up this mornin’?”

“Hold on, she just showed up at—” Arthur tries to interrupt, finding the intrusion as a larger matter.

“Shut it,” John barks, and Arthur lifts his hands a bit to show partial surrender before John turns back to her. “I need you to tell me the truth, Abby.”

“I ain’t ever seen that book before in my life. An’ I mean, even if I did do it, why does it matter so much to you, John?” She doesn’t sound accusative, her tone innocent and curious about why exactly a few pages being removed is so crucial. “It’s just a few pages.”

“Sure, it might be a few pages,” John says, looking between the other two in the room. “But that’s exactly where all the information on his wives was.”

Arthur thinks he understands John’s fretting, now, even if it’s taken him this long. “What were their names?” John turns around to gaze at Arthur with a look of confusion, lifting his hand to his head and pressing it against his forehead.

“Uh, Molly, I think. And Susan? No, that’s… Molly and…” he goes quiet for a moment, gazing off into space. “Right. Annabelle.”

The names strike a chord inside of Arthur, and he stiffens. Abigail’s the first to mention it through the vigorous flipping of pages from John again. “Somethin’ wrong, Arthur?”

“No, it’s… it’s just those names…”

“Have you heard them before?” John’s movements stop as he pauses to listen to the exchange.

“He told me about them. How they were changed, how they died.”

“What did he say?”

“Annabelle died when a werewolf attacked her… he said he loved her before he was ever turned, so he wanted to take her to the afterlife with him. And Molly died while being turned.”

John nods, setting the book down on the table and taking a seat. “Listen.” Arthur takes the seat beside him, watching him glance at the book, then to his hands, then to Arthur. “I guess I don’t need a book to tell you what I can, but it may not be as fancy as they would’ve put it.”

“I hope you ain’t givin’ me credit for knowin’ words I don’t.” John simply shakes his head, ignoring the attempt at lightening the mood.

“Annabelle lived with him for years. Well— existed. Even if she was dead, that weren’t a life you  _ could  _ live. He controlled her like a dog.” John lowers his gaze, lifting a hand to gesture as he speaks. “He’d snap his fingers and she’d run up next to him. Disgusting. That werewolf rescued her, if nothin’ else.”

Arthur recognises a pattern as John continues to speak. Arthur, himself, wasn’t allowed to step outside alone for much more than a few minutes before Dutch found him, and that was only at night. The whole time, Dutch had him convinced that it was because he didn’t want Arthur hurt by the sun, but with John’s words slowly filling his mind, he realises that it was to keep him away from the eyes of others.

No wonder he’d shown up so quickly when the wolf had been so close.

Abigail joins in after a while, adding on to what John is saying. It’s nothing to ease Arthur’s nerves to know that both of them are aware of all of this, and he’s not, but it seems that Dutch had always been watching him. Making sure he knew only what Dutch wanted him to.

How long had he been living a censored life, while still being blissfully unaware?

“He told me about how he held Molly as she died,” Arthur confesses through a lull in conversation, his counterparts thinking on what, if any, information they’ve forgotten. “The venom turned her, but not fast enough to stop itself from killin’ her.”

“That’s true.” Arthur looks up at John, watching as Abigail nods in concurrence.

“Really?”

“That’s what I read.”

“So he told me the truth about her, but not about Annabelle?”

“Well, he didn’t get Molly sweet enough on him to make it anythin’ worth hiding.” Arthur nods, another quietness falling over them as Arthur thinks.

“I’m just a replacement for them,” he says after a while, dragging the pad of his middle finger across a smudge on the table, silently finding it to be a scratch and leaving it be. “That’s all I am to him.”

“Right. And that’s why you can’t go back.”

Abigail agrees with John’s words. “He’ll eat you alive, now he knows to watch out for things like that.”

“But he…” Arthur begins, mouth left open. “I trusted him. No— I trusted Aiden. Aiden O’Malley the goddamn vampire hunter.”

“And I lead you to him.” John speaks to Arthur without looking at him, staring off into nowhere as he silently apologises. Arthur knows the tone of his voice. Knows the way he’s speaking. He’s trying to apologise.

Arthur also knows that he never will.

“So what do you suppose we do? He’ll come lookin’ for me, probably already has spies out all over town.” He recalls the night before, how he saw Dutch there. In that case, he already knows where Arthur is. “I think we need to go somewhere else. He probably knows I’m here.”

“Good point.” Abigail leans onto the table, touching the edge of the empty can sitting there. “We might have to go to a whole ‘nother country, even.”

“You know you don’t have to come, Abigail,” Arthur says, less as a threat and as more of a genuine concern. John’s always been there for Arthur, and Abigail doesn’t need to get all tied up in Arthur’s mistakes. Besides, John owes him one for even mentioning the name in the first place.

“I don’t have to, but I want to. I care about you, Art,” she smiles, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. It draws a smile from him. Reminds him that even the night before, when he’d thought no one cared to come looking for him, there was always someone thinking about him. Remembering him. Keeping his existence alive.

John sits back in his chair, quietly thinking. Arthur looks to him and he glances back, brows furrowed in thought. “Germany.”

“Germany?” Arthur leans forward on his elbows, interested in the imagination of the thought, but truthfully, not seeing the reality in it.

“We could go there. Or England.”

“We ain’t really on good terms with them right now, are we?”

“We ain’t on good terms with anyone, Arthur. Haven’t been for years. You’ve been runnin’ from the law since you falsely killed that woman the first time, an’ you likely won’t stop runnin’ now, seein’ your position.” Arthur nods, then shakes his head and looks down at the table.

“Why those places?”

“Germany’s pretty good for tourists from what I remember. ‘Course, I looked years back.” Arthur either doesn’t care to ask, or simply doesn’t have the motivation to, because he likely knows the answer to his question anyway. “They take in anyone.”

“And with the Brits?”

“It’s rainy. Almost always cloudy. Very little to be burnt by, if you get me.”

“But not really practical. We’d stick out like a bunch of sore thumbs.”

“We’d do that anywhere we went,” Abigail adds, and Arthur lifts a hand to gesture to her, nodding his agreeance.

“Not unless we always carried a mug of beer on-hand, which don’t sound too bad, anyway. It ain’t whiskey, but drunk is drunk.” Arthur laughs a bit to himself, and he finally sees John crack a smile before it disappears into that thoughtful look again. “The whole language thing would be a pretty big setback.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit. Your brain’s practically filled with a bunch of different languages by now, ain’t it?”

“I…” Arthur feels as if he’s been put on the spot; as if John knows something he shouldn’t. Had he known Dutch had been injecting those things into his brain via osmosis for the past few months? If so, how? “I dunno. Ask me to say somethin’ in German.” John furrows his brows and looks at Arthur before opening and closing his mouth as he conjures something up.

“Say, ‘I’m sorry’.”

“Entschuldigung.” The word comes naturally, pouring off of his tongue like it has always been there. Arthur’s taken aback himself, and the word spells itself out in his mind’s eye like he’s always known it.

“That’s amazing,” Abigail says, her mouth open in awe. She smiles, shaking her head. “That just came with the change?”

“No, it was… Dutch sorta taught me. Still don’t prove that I’m a natural Germanish.”

“Dutch teaching you sounds like a nice trade-off.”

“Sure, if it weren’t while I was asleep, it would be a lot nicer.”

“Oh, that’s…”

“So, Germany?” John interrupts, bringing them back to the task at hand. Arthur nods, and Abigail supposedly does, as well, Arthur unable to see her, even through his peripherals. “Good. We’ll leave as soon as we can. If we have to, we’ll leave in broad daylight.”

“And what kind of money are you plannin’ to use for all of this?”

“That’s the thing.” John says, suddenly much more serious. “How comfortable are you with sneakin’ back into that castle?”


	16. XVI

“You’re absolutely sure about this?” Arthur looks over his shoulder to John again, who nods. Abigail is standing beside him, her arms crossed as she looks over Arthur’s outfit for any showing skin.

“As sure as I can be,” he sighs, glancing out the window. “Remember what you have to do?”

“Ride the train up to Annesburg, then get up to the castle as fast as I can. Avoid him if he’s there…” Arthur looks out the window he’s been told to leave through, just to avoid as many people as possible. “This ain’t soundin’ too foolproof, John. I… what if he finds me?”

“We’ll come get you.” Arthur turns to look at Abigail, who spoke, just as John does the same thing.

“No.” He shakes his head, standing up straight to use his hands and explain a bit more. “You can’t. If he finds you, too, you’ll be caught and turned, and you’ll be in the same rut I’m in. If he finds me, I need you both to…” he finds himself looking away even as he speaks, taking a breath. “Forget me. Don’t avenge me and make fools of yourselves, alright?” He places hands on either of their shoulders, John nodding first. Abigail hesitates for a moment or two before finally nodding, sighing. “I’ll put a stake through my own heart if it comes to it.”

“But we won’t focus on that, right? Because you’ll go in and get out like it’s nothing.” Abigail, as per usual, seems to be playing on the brighter side of everything. Arthur can only nod, not feeling as if he can physically say something like that, especially if it could so easily become a lie.

“I’ll get there, get the money, and run for it. I’ll meet you both here, and we’ll go from there.”

“Right,” John nods, looking out the window again. “Be careful.”

As Arthur stands there and gazes at John, he realises just how much he wants to kiss the man. This is likely the last time they’ll see one another. Dutch will absolutely find him. He’s probably expecting Arthur back, sitting in the front corridor polishing a shotgun as he waits for Arthur like a teenage girl expected home hours ago. “I will.”

He pulls the window open with a few simple moves, pushing his way through and finding his ground a few feet lower than the window. John lowers his satchel a moment later and he easily hooks it over his shoulder, looking out to where the sun has been touching the grass for hours now.

Arthur doesn’t wave as he finally takes his steps into the sun. He doesn’t turn back to look at them. He doesn’t spare the time with goodbyes, because something inside of him tells him that if he doesn’t, he’ll have another chance later. The universe is like that.

A final goodbye is always inevitable.

Walking along the backsides of buildings, staying within alleys, he’s careful to make his way towards the train station, a hand nervously fiddling with the strap of his satchel. It’s torn and weathered, the leather aged and discoloured with the amount of sun it used to see. For no unexpected reason, the feeling of it against his calloused fingers is what attempts to take his mind off of the shit he has to deal with.

Would his parents be proud of him?

His mother might. His father always told him he was disappointing, while his mother constantly told him that he made her proud. Somehow, he used to think they balanced one another out, but that was never truly the case. His father’s words always won over his mother’s. Perhaps that’s why he now believes he is worth nothing.

The train is coming to a stop in front of the station when he reaches it, and he’s careful to keep to himself as he boards. He finds a seat to rest in by himself.

Still, as he sits there, he finds no rest. He finds no peace.

Only the hum of idle chatter around him, and the looming presence of imminent doom surrounding him; swallowing him. It’s around his ankles, now. It’s a viscous substance, char black and climbing. Eating at him.

But Arthur can’t die from something like that.

No, that would be too easy, and too much is at stake. Two people are waiting for him to return with enough cash to take them to another country.

If Arthur is to die, it should be at his own hand.

 

* * *

 

The train ride is long and painful, and the theft of some drunkard’s horse is unexpected at best, but he does it nonetheless. The stallion dislikes him at first, but after feeding it a few leftover carrots from his satchel (ones he’s glad John replaced), it seems to warm up to him. With the additional speed, he’s able to make it to the castle by four in the afternoon.

As soon as he spots it, hazy with quite a bit of distance still to tread, he dismounts and pats the stallion’s neck, then pets its snout once or twice, smiling and leading it to a more discreet place behind quite a few trees.

He leaves the horse there, moving the rest of the way on foot. He’s careful to avoid windows, ducking around corners when he’s able to see inside, hoping to any higher power that Dutch isn’t in there to see him. What a way to go out, he thinks. With Dutch spying him through the window, snarkily chuckling at the fact that he thinks he can be stealthy.

Arthur believes himself to be the worst vampire, because all of the ones he’s met have been light on their feet and difficult to detect.

It would be a lie to say that Arthur is like them in such a way.

He finds a door after a while, careful to slip in before it opens too far and it creaks to alert Dutch of his presence. It shuts silently, just as Arthur had shut it before, and he moves swiftly down the hallway.

Even in his haste, he avoids larger corridors and rooms, ducking past the doorways and heading directly for the study.

Below the bookcase, he remembers.

It had been one of the times Dutch left him alone for longer than ten minutes, and he’d gotten curious and cocky, so he shifted the bookcase. To his surprise, it had moved to reveal a chest full of riches beyond Arthur’s wildest fantasies.

It was gorgeous.

Creeping through the hallways, he reaches the door and pushes himself in. His movements from then on out are a blur, but he’s aware of the moving bookshelf, the chest, the stacks upon stacks of cash. The green and gold are stuffed into his satchel, more gold than green, but after a moment or two, Arthur’s thoughts finally catch up to him, and the room seems so much darker.

This has been too easy.

There was nothing to stop him.

Nothing to keep him from gathering what he desires and leaving forever.

Nevertheless, he attempts to ignore it and stands, pulling the buckles on his satchel as tight as they’ll go as to not allow the gold much room to move around and sound out against one another.

As he takes a step back, he feels the arms around him before he sees them, and his entire body stiffens.

“Arthur,” Dutch coos, “you’re late.”


	17. XVII

Lips are against Arthur’s neck before Arthur can reply, his chest rising as he feels one of those arms loosen and move to grip the satchel on Arthur’s side. “What’s this?”

Arthur’s jaw moves, opens to say something, the muscles in his face contract, but no sound comes out. Somehow, his voice is far, far behind the rest of his body, and all he’s able to do is open and close his mouth like the moronic fish he is.

“Stealing?” Dutch undoes the two latches and slowly pulls the straps from their brass buckles, opening it. He lifts a gold bar from the bag, letting out a sigh. As the breath billows over Arthur’s skin, he lets out his own breath. “What’s this for?” Dutch holds it forward a bit, Arthur looking down at it. “Planning on paying for something big?”

“I…” Arthur says, his voice finally catching up and forcing only a word out.

“Hush,” Dutch says softly, whispering, leaning closer and slowly lifting the strap of the satchel off of Arthur’s shoulder. “After last night, I thought I wouldn’t see you again.” He sets the bag aside, the contained items clunking against the floorboards. “You made me so jealous, you know that?”

Dutch’s hands move from around Arthur’s waist to slide both hands along his arms, then his shoulders, still standing behind him, teasing.

Only Arthur’s not being teased. He doesn’t feel as if it’s truly what Dutch is doing.

This is something else.

Baiting.

Toeing the line.

“With you on top of him, I…” Dutch chuckles, and Arthur feels his mouth looming near his right ear. “I couldn’t just stay hidden anymore. I had to make sure you _knew_ I was watching.”

Arthur continues to stand there as he feels Dutch slowly unbuttoning his shirt, feeling the skin along his chest as he does.

“You looked good on top,” Dutch continues, his voice low. If it were any other circumstance, Arthur would find it seductive, but in this moment, he feels only dread. Perhaps even fear. “But I’ll make sure you know that I look better.”

At this point, Dutch kisses Arthur’s neck again, lips grazing over the two little dots in the skin as he removes Arthur’s shirt altogether and unbuttons a majority of the union suit, feeling and feeling and _feeling_ him. As he does this, his breath passing hot over Arthur’s skin, Arthur begins to wonder where exactly this all began.

Was it truly John’s recommendation?

Was it the first time his eyes met Aiden’s? He remembers that meeting as quite the experience. Quite unforgettable.

Was it after Arthur found out about Dutch? Because his thoughts about Aiden changed that morning. He doesn’t quite recall whether they were positive or negative, but he remembers making a solid decision that morning. Despite not doing anything with Dutch that day, and for good reason, he wanted to. It was there.

It has always been there.

Arthur’s head is tipped back against Dutch’s shoulder as those lips slowly work lower and lower on his arm, pecking the skin so softly. Arthur purses his lips as to not let out the breath he knows wants to allow itself to be known. A noisy sound, and an excited one, at that.

Dutch allows his hands to lift from the skin as he traverses a bit lower, but he pauses as Arthur turns around in his arms and tugs him into a passionate kiss. His fingers are lost in pitch black curls, lips smashing against Dutch’s again and again.

“I knew you’d come to your senses,” Dutch mutters half into Arthur’s mouth, a smirk on his face. “You’re so much nicer when you’re compliant.” Arthur feels a hand move directly for his groin, the meat of the palm pressing down roughly and forcing out a groan. Dutch circles his hand for a moment before adjusting his grip and rubbing the vague shape of Arthur through the fabric.

As Arthur feels another telling sound beginning to bubble to the surface, he pulls Dutch in for another kiss, focusing on the feeling of Dutch’s lips, his tongue, his breath, his taste; anything.

“You have no idea how much I want this; how _long_ I’ve wanted this. Wanted _you_.”

“You have me,” Arthur nods, pursing his lip as Dutch’s fingers squeeze a little tighter. “I’m right here.”

“Yes, you are,” Dutch agrees, finally moving his hand to unbuckle Arthur’s belt.

“Are we doin’ this right here?” Arthur wonders if they should move to somewhere more comfortable for Arthur’s first time taking rather than giving, but Dutch nods.

“I’m still deciding.”

“On?” Arthur’s sentence is much shorter than he’d expected it to be, but he feels Dutch pushing his hand under the loosened waistband of Arthur’s pants.

“What your punishment should be.”

Of course, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.

Though, he supposes it’s valid and was expected.

“Ah,” Dutch nods after a moment, pulling back and reaching for Arthur’s hand. “Come along.”

Arthur does as he’s told, following behind with a subtle worry in the back of his mind. It isn’t as pressing as it should be, he supposes, but he’s still anxious nonetheless.

They walk through halls and halls, up several flights of stairs, until eventually, they reach a very high portion of the castle. Dutch stops Arthur by another door and presses him against a wall, grinning as he feverishly kisses at Arthur’s neck, his hands working Arthur’s clothes off.

“Eager?” Arthur tries, but he’s rewarded with a grunt of disapproval, so he hushes up and enjoys the mouth on his neck and the clothes finally being removed from his body.

“Do you know what your punishment is?” Dutch questions, Arthur’s pants in a heap on the floor and his union suit quickly looking to join them. “You won’t like it.” Dutch pauses as he slides the fabric off, leaving Arthur’s top half totally bare. “Then again, perhaps you will.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Arthur asks as if he’s not worried, arching off of the wall and looking Dutch in the eyes to be as alluring and sexually curious as possible. Dutch’s arm hooks behind his arched back, pulling him away from the wall.

“Fly, angel, fly,” Dutch says, before opening the door and shoving Arthur out into the sunlight. Immediately, Arthur tenses and attempts to cover himself up, but when he notices that there isn’t a hint of pain, he looks back at Dutch. “Well! Would you look at that.”

Arthur looks down at his body, revealed almost entirely as it is, then out at the rest of the wide balcony being bathed in sun. Dutch is still standing in the shade of the doorway, looking at him with such intrigue and fascination. “What…”

“I was right.”

“Right about what?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Somehow, without even touching or mentioning anything, Arthur recalls the motions Dutch — or, Aiden, at the time — had shown him during their very first meeting.

_Unfortunately, an angel must earn his wings, and until then, looks just as any human would, going essentially unrecognised._

The memory plays back as if it was happening again, and Arthur feels Aiden’s hands on him again, gently touching and pivoting his arm.

“I—”

“So clever, aren’t you?” Dutch says, arms crossing. Arthur stands up a bit, glaring at Dutch. “Coming along to kill me? Take me back up to my father?”

“What are you talking about?” Dutch shakes his head, chuckling a bit.

“So, _so_ very clever.”

“Am I—?”

“An angel? Why yes, of course, only… impure.” Dutch raises an eyebrow, Arthur staring right back at him. “I’ve scuffed you. We can no longer believe you are perfect, because you are marked with the symbol of the devil.”

Arthur’s mouth is locked open, confused for many, many reasons. What all is happening now?

Vampires burn in the sun, he’s seen it happen, and clearly, Dutch is avoiding the sun for a reason. And Dutch wants him to believe that he’s not burning because he’s some sort ot _fallen angel_?

What in the world?

“Dutch!” A voice calls from far below, but Arthur cannot see whomever it is.

A few birds take flight from a tree a ways away.

“Dutch van der Linde!” It calls again.

Arthur can’t believe his ears.

“I’m the one you want!” Arthur looks to Dutch, who looks idly at the treeline from his perspective, standing in the doorway. “Come down here, or I’m coming up there!”

John.

“Don’t be foolish, I’m aware that you’re the one I desire,” Dutch calls, and Arthur hears something. Like clawing, and the sound of hurried climbing.

In seconds, John is standing before Arthur, his muscles tensed as he breathes heavily. Arthur’s completely lost. How..?

“Don’t mess with him. I’m here. Isn’t that what you wanted?” John presses forward to Dutch standing in the doorway, looking much bigger than he usually does. Has Arthur not noticed a sizeable difference in John’s muscle mass? Height? “At your mercy.”

“I’m sure,” Dutch sounds as if he knows exactly what’ll happen. Like something he’s been planning for a long time is finally unfolding.

They stand and look at each other for a second before John suddenly moves, his hand jutting forward to grab at Dutch’s throat. It seems almost as if the vampire was completely unexpecting of it, being lifted off of his feet and thrown onto the balcony, into the sun.

“John?” Arthur asks, confused.

“I’ll… I’ll explain later. I just need you to stay back for a minute.”

Dutch writhes against the ground, the sun burning at his skin. Arthur watches as it boils and pops, sizzling and destroying itself.

“Where’s the fight, Van der Linde? I thought you’d fight for them; at least, _for her_.”

“You shut up,” Dutch is on his feet in moments, his face still sizzling and crackling as it burns. “She didn’t deserve it.”

“She didn’t deserve you!” John barks, hands fisted at his sides. “You’re a vile beast!’

“Says the dog standing before me!”

_Dog?_

“You were horrible to her. She hated _every second_ with you!”

“And you killed her.” Dutch’s voice is much quieter now, angrier. “You killed my Annabelle! Stole her from me!”

_What?_

“You deserved to live with the pain of seein’ someone you treated so horribly, dyin’ happy. Of course you’re the kind of man to prefer a woman’s sufferin’ over her happiness, even if it means sacrificing you.” Dutch’s nostrils flare before he finally lunges forward, Arthur watching as his skin tears away from itself and completely rebuilds. It’s that bat-like creature again, only looking angrier as it flies at John.

John changes in his own way, snarling and lurching forward as well, his entire body becoming more canine with every moment passing. Arthur knocks himself to his feet and pushes himself away, finding metallic bars to lean against as this hell breaks loose before him.

A clash of snarls and growls is all Arthur hears as he looks down at his hands, trying to sort this all out in his mind.

John was the werewolf which killed Annabelle.

John _is a werewolf_.

Arthur’s some angel, marked by Dutch and damned to fall.

John and Dutch are fighting before him, but he can’t seem to lift his eyes to see what’s actually happening.

This can’t be real. This is absolutely ridiculous. But the sound of the two of them fighting is unmistakable, and the sizzling of Dutch’s skin is still sounding out loud for anyone in the area to hear.

How long did John think he could hide this sort of thing? Does Abigail know?

Arthur’s finally able to pull his gaze from his hands, looking up at the two. Dutch’s got John in a chokehold, pulling him steadily from his feet and into the air, but John’s claws are digging deeper and deeper into the healing flesh of Dutch’s arms. Arthur takes a breath, watching as John’s teeth bare and listening as he growls.

“Dutch,” Arthur says, quietly at first, pushing himself to his feet. “Dutch!”

The beast’s eyes land on him, attentive and remaining angry. However, the distraction is enough to allow John the freedom of nearly tearing Dutch’s arm off as he falls to the balcony and immediately lunges back up at Dutch when he catches his breath, jaws wide open.

In his haze, staring at Arthur’s eyes which tell an entire story and a half, Dutch forgets the battle, John pulling him so easily from the sky and throwing him to the flooring of the balcony. Arthur hears the stone cracking from the impact, but despite his mind telling him he should’ve reacted somehow, flinching or something, he doesn’t. He simply moves closer, leaning over Dutch as John growls at him.

Dutch doesn’t look to be fighting anymore.

Maybe his body’s finished; has given all it can, with the constant healing, and the shifting, and all of that. Arthur doesn’t blame it for finally giving up.

“You deserve this,” Arthur says, still hearing the steady sizzle of the man below him’s skin. “All of this.”

John holds himself back as he hears Arthur speak, and Arthur’s glad for it. At least he can share a few words with a man — yet, still a beast — he’s been forced to get to know all too well in far too little time. “I do.”

Dutch admits it.

He says it in a weak voice as his body’s bones break and realign to form a human-like figure again, and he’s looking up at the sky, the side of his face bubbling and red from the irritation of it all.

“You’re horrible.”

“I am.”

“Do you know the kind of pain you caused me? Caused Annabelle? And Molly? You made it seem like you were the one sufferin’ when Molly died. So you had to hold her; had to live on. But you _replaced_ her with someone who…” Arthur shakes his head, standing up a bit and looking away from Dutch to think of what exactly he wants to say. “Doesn’t matter.”

“If you kill me, John,” Dutch says, his voice still quiet and cautious as his body tries so weakly to repair itself with what little remaining energy it has. His arms are still torn to the bone, and they don’t look to be getting any better, as compared to how they normally would. “He’ll go, too.”

John glances up at Arthur, their eyes meeting.

Arthur’s thrown back many months as he sees the colour of those irises. Puts two and two together.

It had been John standing there that night in the forest. He’d been coming to check on Arthur, perhaps, or just happened to be in the area, but he was there. Those eyes are the exact same he’d seen on that night. The same colour. The same shape. The same expression.

Their gazes part when John looks back down to Dutch, who is still staring blankly into the sky.

“A lover,” Dutch says, whispering. But Arthur’s certain that both he and John can hear it. “What a convoluted thought. “I wonder if it hurts to live – And if They have to try – And whether – could They choose between – It would not be – to die.” Dutch finally cracks a smile, looking to Arthur. “You know who wrote that?”

Perhaps Dutch is going insane. Perhaps his mind is completely gone. But nonetheless, Arthur shakes his head in response.

“Emily Dickinson.” Dutch looks back up to the sky, taking a breath. “But give me the love that so freely gives And laughs at the whole world’s blame, With your body so young and warm in my arms, It sets my poor heart aflame.” He laughs a little. “Ella Wheeler Wilcox.”

And Arthur, beyond his good judgement, moves to kneel, both knees eventually pressing against the cold stone as he listens. John’s weight is lighter on Dutch now, clearly seeing that the man doesn’t need to be held down any longer. He looks interested as well, ears flicking every now and again.

“I want to hold her again.” Dutch isn’t quoting this time, and they both know it immediately from the way he smiles, and the way he turns his head to look out as the sun finally begins to set. “I want to tell her all I learned since she left me. All the people I met who reminded me of her.”

Without asking, Arthur knows he’s speaking about Annabelle, not Molly. Molly was as much of a replacement as Arthur was. Annabelle was the first, and it seems the was the last. “You will.” Arthur whispers, the melancholy getting to him. He doesn’t want to feel bad. He doesn’t want to apologise to Dutch, because he deserves this. He deserves to be killed here, but he’s right. If John does this, Arthur will go, too.

Or will that “angel” thing save him, if it is, indeed, real? Though, he can’t really argue with it’s existence, seeing as he’s not boiling alive in the remaining sunlight.

“Keep killing us, Arthur,” Dutch says, looking to Arthur one last time. “Kill the ones he created. You’ll start with me.”

“He?”

“My Aiden,” John looks to know what Dutch is speaking about, and he nods, silently lowering his eyes. Arthur does as well, though not as understanding. “Do the world the service I’d attempted before I wound up in your spot.” Dutch slowly reaches for Arthur’s hand, and Arthur takes it, sighing.

“I will.” Dutch smiles a bit before looking back up at the sky and dropping Arthur’s hand. It’s a moment later that Arthur looks to John and nods once, looking away as John moves forward to sink his teeth into Dutch’s shoulder, essentially killing him.

Moments later, Dutch is completely gone, carried away in particles by the wind. They glint here and there, the sunlight catching them, but he’s _gone_.

Arthur feels empty, but that’s about it.

There’s no overwhelming pain, or dizziness, or sleepiness. He only feels empty.

John’s shift is quick, and he sits there, his clothes having been torn off with his first shift, beside Arthur.

And Arthur finds it in himself to laugh.

 

* * *

 

Arthur is still very good with guns, even years later. He’s always been proficient, perhaps perfect, and with his parents having been vampire hunters, there’s no reason for one to wonder why. He and a childhood friend, John, track down and slaughter vampires together by 1906. Occasionally, they’re accompanied by John’s wife, Abigail, but after their child’s birth, she’s been at home more often than not.

Despite John’s argument to name their son Aiden, they decide on something less striking to Arthur, and they land on Jack.

It’s after a search of Dutch’s castle is conducted, and they find a book of poems, one of which is written by John Keats. Because John, of course, wanted his own name to be somewhere near his own son’s, they picked a nickname.

To John’s eventual grave, he recites John Keats’ poem to Jack.

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love poetry.  
> Thank you for joining me on this journey! It's definitely not the longest story I've written, but it's definitely taken the most time, and I'd like to apologise for that. I shouldn't have put it on hold to do TotM, but oh well!
> 
> In other news, I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo during July this year! If you're unaware of what that is and you enjoy writing, as well as testing your limits and challenging yourself, I suggest checking it or its counterpart, NaNoWriMo, out!  
> Add me as a buddy at heads-up on there if you'd like, and I'll make a cabin with all of us in July!  
> I look forward to seeing your messages!


End file.
